


and the universe said

by luminyan



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: AKA: I saw some really good fanart and proceeded to be super inspired to write a fic, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Dream SMP characters - Freeform, Dream Smp, Dream is a rumour-chaser and it leads him down a fucking rabbithole, Gen, Other, Realistic Minecraft, Witch AU, Witch!Dream, Witch!Dream Team, Witches and Witchunters, Witchhunter!Technoblade, characters not people, dream team, not shippy really, tags to be added over time i guess!, well. not romantic shippy. very platonic shippy among the adventuring stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminyan/pseuds/luminyan
Summary: “The whole world has a power that we barely understand.” A pause. “It nurtures us. It is the beginning, it is the middle, it is the end. We can wield magic, did you know?”An excited nod. He knew.Clay is a witch with a bit of an obsession, drawn to the siren's call of the End— and it's no little task for him to chase what everyone in the world seems to say is a childhood fable.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Darryl Noveschosch, Clay | Dream & Dave | Technoblade, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Zak Ahmed & Darryl Noveschosch
Comments: 111
Kudos: 190





	1. lost in a story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things I wanna toss out right off the bat! 
> 
> 1\. This is my first fic for mcyt/Dream SMP, but if CC's want fics taken down then I'll happily remove this. Regardless, this is a gen adventure fic, but there will be come touching on relationships here and there!  
> 2\. These are based off of characters! I've drawn a lot of inspiration from both interactions on the SMP, compilations, and fics I've read on here! Actually, _Green and Gold_ by HognoseSnake is a big inspiration for some of this worldbuilding, so shoutout to them! If you haven;t read their fic yet, you absolutely should, [it's phenominal.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25879459/chapters/62884513#workskin)  
> 3\. This fic was ALSO inspired by [this artwork right here](https://soybean-official.tumblr.com/post/630003764227604480/its-almost-spooky-month-which-means-i-can-legally#notes) by soybean-official on tumblr. their artwork sparked this whole thing, even if i've kinda steered way away from that.
> 
> CW's for chapters will be posted in beginning notes for chapters!

Crisp and yellowed pages turn under gnarled hands, the aged paper treated with the most delicate care as they are handled. The leather of the binding has softened from use, and the spine has cracked from the ages of handling. 

“Do you know that the world is made of magic?”

The voice is gravelly: old and worn with age, but laced with the warmth of family. There’s a rumbling to it that calls attention, and green eyes watch, wide and enraptured. They glitter with the excitement of childhood, of the belief of the young.

“The whole world has a power that we barely understand.” A pause. “It nurtures us. It is the beginning, it is the middle, it is the end. We can wield magic, did you know?”  
  
An excited nod. He knew. 

“Magic molds our stories. You have to respect it, and know where it comes from.” The book’s page turns, and he leans forward ever-so-slightly as it does. “We are like the spine of this book, and the magic is the pages. It fills us, it gives us the slate for us to write, to learn, to grow— to write out stories. Do you understand?” 

“I understand.”

That gnarled hand reaches forward, ruffles through his hair, and laughter seeps into the warmth of that gravelly voice. “Serious as always, boy.” 

He ducks his head away from the offending hair-ruffle, swatting feebly in mock retaliation, and the laughter continues. Tea-kettle laughter joins the shifting of gravel, filling the air. The books on the shelves absorb it all and return wisps of runes that dissolve in the air. 

The laughter dissipates and eases into silence, interrupted by the soft crackling of the logs in the fireplace. Those gnarled hands reach forward again, coaxing the flames higher, and the light catches in enamoured greens. 

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, boy?” 

He reaches for the fire, holding a respectful distance as his skin soaks up the radiating warmth. 

“Will you teach me magic?"

* * *

The air is cold when Clay closes the door behind him, broom in hand and bag slung over his shoulder. He considers going back inside for a moment, just to grab a scarf or something else to block the chill, but he knew his mask would work just fine. He readjusts it again, peering through it with ease, and looks back at his house.

Patches is curled up on the windowsill, watching him with big and innocent eyes. She flicks her ear and turns her head, tucking her paws up underneath her as her gaze moves between Clay, the sky, and then back to Clay. 

A huff of laughter escapes him, and he walks a bit further down the path in front of his house. He brings his broom around in front of him, swings a leg over to straddle the perch, and he pushes off the ground. The air catches him easily and in no time at all, he’s coasting into the air.

He loves flying. 

Clay loves everything about magic, has been enamoured with it since he was old enough to comprehend it, but flying brought a sense of exhilaration different from the rush of experimentation. There was something freeing about flight, something thrilling about splitting the air as he tore through the skies. 

As he coasts higher, Clay reaches back towards his bag and fishes a coffee bean out from a secured pouch. Broomsticks can only go so fast on their own, and Clay is looking for a rush.

He pops the coffee bean into his mouth, feeling the shell beginning to fizzle.

The spell activates and sends Clay shooting through the sky, going up, up, _up_. The cold air stings as it streams past his face, cutting through his clothes and hair wildly in a way that is exhilarating. Clay continues to climb, shooting up like a comet as he speeds up faster and faster—at as quick of a pace as the spell will allow. He howls in delight as he climbs, breaking through the clouds, and laughs at the feeling as he tears through the cold sky. 

The coffee bean in his mouth reacts to the magic in the air, making his tongue buzz slightly. He can hear the faint chiming of the glyph at his back, swirling around the tail end of his broomstick as the spell keeps his acceleration going. He can feel the coating on the bean beginning to dissolve, a faint sensation among the burning wind. It’s going to wear off soon.

He begins to pull his broom back, his rising angle turning to something closer to a vertical, and he cracks the coffee bean between his teeth. 

The air pops as the spell dissipates, and Clay falls away for a moment as he reaches the peak of his rise. He is weightless, his body having separated from his broomstick as he uncrosses his ankles. The air is still cold, the sunlight still weak, but for now the world is still and silent and he is flying.

And then he falls. 

Gravity reclaims its hold on him and he begins to fall back towards the earth. His laughter is lost in the wind that rushes by him as he plummets— he falls back through the clouds and watches the world as it gets closer.

He tightens his grip on his broomstick, pulling it back towards him in a movement that sends him spinning. He adjusts, readying himself to slow his descent.

There is movement from the edge of the woods that his glaze flickers to— a flash of white and black and orange catches his eye for an instant before he focuses back on the ground. The treetops are closer now, and that’s his cue. 

In a single fluid motion, Clay brackets his broomstick between his legs, hooks his ankles beneath him, and pulls up. He continues to fall, but the broomstick’s magic is ever faithful and redirects the speed to send him hurtling forward instead of down. 

He hears a yelp of surprise as he whirls his broom around, dropping one foot to skid to a halt, and he looks towards the sound. 

Sapnap stands on the gravel path, his own broom in one hand and the other on the brim of his hat. He looks only slightly ruffled, but there’s a slight tilt to his mouth that looks almost like a smile. 

“Dude.” Sapnap adjusts his hat and drops his hand. “Again?”

“Don’t ‘again’ me, Sapnap.” Clay dismounts and twirls his broom before leaning on it again. “You don’t use proper broom safety either.” 

“Touche,” Sapnap replies. He grins and swings his broom over his shoulders, hooking his wrists over the ends. “You good to go get George?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” He nods and pushes himself up, hooking his broom through his bag. “Think I should bring Patches?”

Sapnap laughs. “Probably— who knows how George is hanging in there after exams.” 

Clay snickers and ducks inside, clicking his tongue for Patches. The feline yawns and leaps off of her perch, twining around Clay’s legs and purring up a storm. He crouches down and pats his knees, and watches his companion’s ears perk up. 

Patches makes short work of using Clay’s knees as a springboard to his shoulders, and settles herself around his neck with only minimal clawing.

With his feline friend settled comfortably, Clay grabs his hat off of his work table and returns back outside. A few more jabs are exchanged, but after a few moments the both of them are off. 

* * *

“It was _hell_.” 

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.” 

“You didn’t take the test! _Hell,_ I tell you, _hell_.”

Clay chokes back a laugh and turns his head to muffle the sound into his arm. George fixes him with a glare behind his soot-covered goggles, and Clay angles his body away as he starts to giggle even harder. 

“You don’t have to go to the fancy-schmancy witch college,” Sapnap reminds, grinning broadly. “Just drop and go make potions with Dream, or charms with me.”

If it wasn’t for the cat coddled in George’s arms, Clay is sure that George would have wacked Sapnap with his broom— Patches is the only thing between Sapnap’s mouth and fine-spun straw. George huffs and scratches Patches beneath the chin, setting the cat off again in her rapid-fire purring, and his scowl melts away slightly. 

“I’m not going to drop out of classes,” George says, the same way he did the last time they had this conversation. “Even if the exams are hell, it helps me understand the family duty a little more.” 

“Ha, you said doody—”

“Dream, take your cat so I can hit Sapnap.” 

Clay doesn’t bother to try and take Patches— if he delays Sapnap’s fate long enough, George will forget about it. Instead, he asks: “You’re taking over the family position, then?” 

George blinks, distracted from his bickering with Sapnap, and smooths his thumb over Patches’ head. “What? No. Helping, not— no. I’d hate that.”

Clay definitely doesn't blame him. George's family is one of the resident witch families, ones that typically assist in providing town services. Even though Clay offered his own services to the town, he never missed the fact that George's family was well-known, especially from their assistance with crop-growth issues two summers previous. Their efficiency with plant-based magics is almost revered by the locals, and Clay has found George helping out with herbal remedies around the town on multiple occasions. Just the sheer numbers of villagers that came to ask for their help makes _Clay_ tired— he can only imagine how stressful it would be on George to just step in and take over.

But he doesn't voice his sympathy, and just snorts in amusement. “Dude, just come live with one of us then. We’re self-sustained!” 

“You’re a fuckin’ homesteader, Dream.” 

“And? I can do whatever I want.” 

“Same here, actually.” Sapnap swirls around to walk in front of his friends, and Clay watches the way his cloak flares out as he turns to face them. “Dream and I do well enough on our own. Why stick around?” 

“I have access to a lot of information at this school.” George shrugs a little bit. “Even outside of like— town political stuff, there’s a _lot_ of information on magic in there. You both know I don’t take to magic as easy as you two do.” 

Clay hums. “That’s true. Plus—” He nudges George in the side with a grin. “—tThe longer he spends at the school, the more we can weasel information out of him that _we_ can use.” 

“You’re insufferable.” 

Clay laughs again, tilting his hat back. 

Ever since George had started his magical studies, he’d made it a bit of a habit of either sneaking materials out or sneaking his friends in. Sapnap and Clay were largely self-taught in their magical practices— even though the both of them have witch blood in their veins, the only instruction that they had properly received was from Clay’s grandfather and Sapnap’s aunt. They both learned family trades and inherited passions— Sapnap has a natural inclination towards fire that lead to proficiency in enchantments, meanwhile Clay retained an understanding of potions and spell components that had thus-far gone unmatched. The information compiled in the library that George had access to was an equivocal goldmine to the both of them.

Sapnap spoke up again. “You know, you never really answered how exams went.”

“I guess they went… fine.” George sighs, returning to smoothing his fingers over Patches’ fur. She raises up to rub her cheek against his, and the corners of his mouth turn up just slightly. “Magical theory sort of destroyed me, though. We had to argue about the properties of bedrock and redstone and how they related to the springwell of magic.”

Sapnap whistles lowly, shaking his head sympathetically, but Clay perks up at the topic. 

.“I kind of just fudged an answer from what I remembered from lecture, and just sort of focused on redstone.” He shrugs. “Bedrock really doesn’t do any good, anyways, but I think I would have failed if I’d actually said that.” 

“Did you mention the End?” 

The words fall from Clay’s mouth before he can stop them, and the hot pinpricks of embarrassment spread beneath his skin as his friends turn their stares to him. He watches Sapnap’s jaw lock as he tries and fails to hide a smile, and George’s expression goes a bit flat. 

“Not everyone thinks the End is actually, like… a plausible thing like you do, Dream.”

Clay’s face feels hot beneath his mask. “I— I mean— I mean I guess, but it’s not something that you can totally rule out, right? There’s got to be other people who’ve actually, like, looked into it. We’ve found research on it!” 

“ _You_ found research on it,.” Sapnap snorts. “Sorry to burst your bubble dude, but I don’t think ‘stories’ count as academic research.”

“Stories always have some truth to them—” 

“—And people have big imaginations,.” George finishes. He gives Clay an apologetic look. “I’m not gonna say that you’re wrong, but I can’t bring up fairy tales in a final essay.” 

There’s a moment of silence where Clay tries to find something to say, opening and closing his mouth like a fish before finally letting his jaw click shut. He enjoys magical theory— he always liked reading the various works and hypothetical essays for how, where, and why magic came to be, and how witches came to interact with it. There has always been a common idea that magic had a springwell, but no one ever seemed to agree on what or where it was. 

—Magic was everything: past, present, future; beginning, middle, end. The End was one theory every witch heard at some point in their lives. It’s no secret between the three of them that Clay has something of an obsession with the place. His grandfather had gotten it into his head at some point that the End was a real place, and Clay has been scouring over essays and tomes and piles upon piles of research ever since. 

Sapnap slaps him on the back. “Not a bad idea though, champ.” 

Clay tries to laugh it off, shoving Sapnap playfully with his elbow. “Oh, shut up.” 

“Ruffians, both of you.” George’s words were flat, but there was the slightest undertone of teasing beneath it. 

Clay glances at Sapnap. Sapnap looks at Clay. 

They grin at each other, and George’s smile falls away as he takes an uncertain step back. 

In a single motion, Clay and Sapnap both lunge for George, who shrieks and backpedals away desperately. Patches’ tail fluffs up at the sound, her claws digging into George’s cloak as her pupils go wide.

“Ruffians, huh? C’mere, Gogy!” 

“You assholes! Leave me alone!”

Clay laughs and leaps after George as the other tears off down the cobblestone streets, swearing as his friends bolt after him to keep up. The chasing helps pull his mind off of his embarrassment, and the needles soothe to a vague discomfort that he’ll would be able to shrug off soon enough. 

(He knows his friends aren’t trying to be mean, anyways. He knows what his interest looks like, and he can’t blame them for teasing him about it.)

Clay trills out, “Oh, George~!” and bolts after his friends, putting the moment behind him.

* * *

The three of them collapse on the steps above the town’s market, hunched over and wheezing as they catch their breath., and Clay leans against the railing as he holds the stitch in his side. 

“I can’t— believe— we didn’t use our brooms—” Sapnap wheezes. 

“Thank hell for—that," George mutters between pants. He leans back on the steps, his hat settled on the ground beside him and his goggles pushed up and into his hair.

“We would have caught you ages ago if we’d used ours.” Clay lets his hand fall away and slides down the railing to sit on the steps. He clicks his tongue at Patches, but she gives all three of them a dirty look and leaps up onto the wall next to Sapnap to watch.

“Thanks for doing the literal bare minimum and not cheating, guys.” Sarcasm coats George’s words. “I _really_ appreciate it.” 

Sapnap grins. “Anytime, buddy.” 

The three of them sit in companionable silence, and Clay takes a moment to look out across the market down the steps. The middle of the afternoon has put everything in full swing below the indistinct chattering and bartering blending naturally with the hum of the rest of the city. He wonders if there are any new vendors. Harvest has already passed and the weather is only set to get colder, so there’s the chance of someone trying to sell the rest of their wares before it’s too cold for them to be of use. 

He’s fine for food, but potion ingredients are always a blessing. Maybe a toy or something for Patches, too; the vendors sometimes came by with things like that…

“Oh, I forgot to tell you guys.” 

Clay and Sapnap turn to George. Sapnap quirks an eyebrow while Clay tilts his head, his curious expression hidden behind his mask 

George’s goggles hang around his neck as he brushes off his hat and returns it to his head. “I heard that there was a new shipment of books that came in recently. Experimental tomes and whatnot— I can probably get you guys into the library for research tomorrow.”

Clay sees George glance at him, and he realizes immediately that his words are an apology of sorts for earlier. George knows exactly what Clay combs through books looking for, and this is an unspoken _‘sorry’_ for dismissing him. 

Sapnap seems to catch the underlying meaning as well, orange eyes flickering between the two of them, before he grins and slings an arm around George’s shoulders with a cheer. “Hell yeah, dude! More spell circles to learn!” 

Clay scoots over and teases, “You gonna be babysitting, or do we get some free reign for once?”

“If you two don’t knock it off, I’ll rescind my offer,” George threatens. There isn’t any bite to his words, but Clay and Sapnap both lean back out of his space anyways. 

“I’ll buy dinner?” Clay offers, grinning. 

“Oh, that goes for me too, right?”  
  
“Yeah, sure, I’ll cover it this time.” 

“I will literally never say no to a free meal, you know that.”

“Uh, yeah, duh. Who says no to a free meal?”

Clay scoops up Patches and deposits her on his shoulder as his thoughts trail back to the shipment of tomes. Something settles in his chest that he recognizes as excitement. He’s always eager to check out new books, always thirsts for a chance to take in new information. This time feels… different, though. Exciting. He tucks his chin into his collar to hide his grin in the heavy material.

He has a good feeling about tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The plan is to try and have semi-regular updates (we'll see how that goes, lol), but i really appreciate yall reading this! 
> 
> Also: Thanks so much to my beta!! @Volarfinch on here, ilysm thank you for beta-ing and helping me with horrific grammar ajdkadka


	2. cage of words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He writes. He adds a book to the stack. He gets up and goes through the aisles. He comes back with more books. His fingers have ink smudged on the ends._
> 
> Clay does research!

Clay wonders, sitting on the front steps of his friend's university long before the sun, if he was overly eager. 

He knows the answer to that is a resounding _'_ __y_ es' _ as he tugs his cloak tighter around him, trying to ward off the chill. Getting into the university was always a precarious endeavor— George wasn't actually allowed to bring in visitors, much less leave them unsupervised, so he had to meet them early and sneak them in whenever the three of them have excursions like this. 

Autumn mornings are cold without the sun, and Clay wishes that he'd brought spell ingredients with him— cinnamon or pepper or something that he could use to warm himself. He just looks towards the sky, tilting his hat back enough to squint at the paling streaks of morning, and tries to stop shivering. He pulls his bag into his lap, opening the top to sift through it again as if he hadn't sorted and resorted through it three times the night before and twice when he'd woken up. 

He has his personal tomes, the books he used to fact-check information, he has ink and quills and paper, he has a thick leather journal for theorizing, and his grimoire is settled in its protected section inside. All that he needs for research. If he had let her, Patches would be curled inside as well, but he had no reason to bring a cat into a library he already wasn't supposed to be inside of. 

He closes the top of his bag and holds it against his chest as he waits for the sun to rise. 

* * *

The library air is thick with the smell of old parchment and dust, and Clay licks away the remains of powdered sugar at the corner of his mouth. When George had arrived with Sapnap, he had so graciously brought breakfast with him, and Clay could have kissed him as he devoured the offered pastries on their way inside.

George leads both Clay and Sapnap around the edges of the library, pointing out new books while straying from the librarian’s desk and keeping the two of them out of the line of sight. The furthest corner of the library has a particular nook in it that the three of them found is rarely used— the air is thick with dust and cobwebs crawl along the walls. Largely forgotten and practically abandoned, it’s the perfect spot for George to stash his friends when he can’t supervise them. Clay could lose himself in that nook for hours. 

"I'll be back at noon to check on you guys," George tells them, voice quiet as Clay and Sapnap claim their creaky tables and start setting out materials. "For the love of God, don't—"

Clay cuts him off. "Don't be loud, don't break anything—" 

"—and keep our heads down," Sapnap finishes. "C'mon, man, you think we're amateurs?" 

George's brow is drawn slightly, like it always is when he's about to leave them alone, and Clay gives a fond exhale as he steps closer. 

He curls his fingers around one of George's hands, squeezing gently. "We'll be  _ fine _ , dude. Worst case is we chug invisibility vials and run."

George squeezes his hand back. "Don't get me fucking expelled," he warns. He turns, grabs a book off of the shelves, and disappears around the end of the aisle.

Clay and Sapnap don't move. Clay tilts his head slightly, listening for anything to change— for any noise to rise above the soft hum of magic in the air. 

The heavy library doors close with a resounding finality, and Clay relaxes. He goes down an aisle and away from Sapnap without a word. He hears the soft scuffle of Sapnap's boots down another aisle of books, the sound muffled by carpet. 

He pulls books of interest off of the shelves before skulking back to the corner, pulling his materials out of his bag, and falls into the familiar rhythm of research.

He flips through pages, balancing on two legs of his chair as he skims over the lines scrawled across the parchment. The library's clock ticks steadily, and slowly the pile of books next to Clay begins to grow.

He chews on his tongue absent-mindedly as his quill scratches across pages— he's gotten lost in interdimensional theory looking for something relating to the End, but everything spoke about the barely-explored Nether instead. Even if he didn't  _ care _ about the Nether, the idea of a portal makes enough sense to him— a way to get from one world to the next. 

He writes. He adds a book to the stack. He gets up and goes through the aisles. He comes back with more books. His fingers have ink smudged on the ends.

"—ream. Dream.  _ Dream. _ " 

A hand touches the back of his neck and Clay jolts in surprise, rocking back into his chair. Sapnap snickers slightly in his chair, arms folded lazily. Clay hears George at his side say, "Good lord, you were  _ gone _ . You good?"

"Huh? Yeah. Just, y'know—" He gestures vaguely. "—in the zone. It's noon already?"

"It's closer to two, actually." George glances up at the clock. "You were pretty in the zone when I came to check on you the first time." 

"... Huh?"

Clay leans back to look towards the clock face as well— the hour hand was just past two, and he's been in the library since sunrise. Most of the library is warm with afternoon sunlight flooding in through the windows, but his and Sapnap's corner is still dark enough. No wonder he hadn't noticed. 

"Dude, have you even  _ moved _ ?" George looks almost concerned. 

"Yeah, he has," Sapnap supplies. "But, like… just to get up and get more books." 

George sighs and frowns at him. "Dream—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Clay waves his hand. "Are we leaving?"

"I am." Sapnap leans back. "I have some enchantment work I need to go get done. You gonna stick around?"

"I think so, yeah." Clay rubs his thumb over one of the spines on the books. "I'm not finding anything about the End, yet, but… I might have found some kind of a lead. Maybe." 

"I'm gonna have to kick you out when I'm out of class," George reminds. 

Clay nods. "Yeah, I know…" He chews on the inside of his cheek. "… Could I sneak in again sometime tomorrow, when you're in class? I really think there's something here… jus' haven't found it yet." 

George and Sapnap exchange a look that Clay pretends he doesn't notice.

"You sure…?" George's voice lifts a little disbelievingly. 

"Yeah! Yeah." A nod. "I really— yeah. I have a good feeling about it, dude. I really just need some more time." 

He offers a grin, and George sighs, rubbing his neck.

"Fine. I'll get you in tomorrow, too. C'mon, Sapnap, let's get you out of here."

There was some shuffling as Sapnap gets to his feet, and Clay offers a small wave as he and George move out of his line of sight. 

He waits, listening, and then opens the book again. 

* * *

He comes back the next morning. And the morning after. George met him both mornings to sneak him into the library, and has to all but drag him out at night. 

"You have to have gone through all of those books, Dream, come on." 

"George, seriously, I really think there's something there." 

* * *

Clay leans his face in his hands, shoving his hair out of his face as he sits in his kitchen. He flips through his journal, rubbing away exhaustion that sits heavy under his eyes. His own hurried scrawl stares back at him, and he huffs softly. 

Portal creation, universal magic distortion, magical sources, pages upon pages of theoreticals he had picked apart and written down. 

He leaves his journal on the table and stands up, padding silently on socked feet as he steps into his magical alcove. 

Clay drags his eyes across the books on his shelves, dragging his fingers across the spines. Patches meows as she follows him, twining around his ankles as he pauses. He pulls a thin book from between two larger tomes and gently brushes a hand across the cover.

A familiar weight settles on his shoulders as Patches launches from the desk, and she rubs her cheek against Clay's. 

He laughs, bringing a hand up to boop her nose with his index finger. "Hey, girl."

Patches continues to rub against him, purring all the while, and Clay drops his gaze back to the book. He flips it open, a part of him melting at the familiar sight of the illustrations inside. 

His grandfather had read this story to him so many times he has it memorized, but seeing the text and the illustrations combined causes a feeling of nostalgia to sweep across him to comfort some of the simmering frustration of not finding anything useful. The edges of the pages are yellowed from age and Clay treats them with care as he reads the story to himself. 

He leans forward as he rests his forehead against the wood of the shelf. Patches readjusts her perch on his shoulder, claws digging into his sweater. 

He reads the story once, and then twice, and then again. 

The End is told to children as a fairytale explanation for where magic originated— a little white lie to give their imagination something to gnaw on. Parents told their kids myths all the time: things that would eventually be proven false, stuff they grew up and learned the truth about. 

"But no one ever figured out if there  _ is  _ a truth," Clay murmurs, tracing some of the runes illustrated on the pages with his thumb. "Who says this one's just a myth?"

Patches meows and jumps off of his shoulder. 

Clay starts to pace, chewing on his thumbnail as he goes. "Seriously, though— people have hypothesized that redstone is a magical source, but has it ever actually been proven? Is it actually  _ magic _ ? Yeah, it has some kind of energy, but that doesn't mean  _ magic— _ " 

Patches watches him from her perch on his desk. 

"This  _ has _ to be it, right? Why wouldn't anyone even check it out? Why is there  _ no research _ on the End?" 

He knows why— witches weren't looked at all that pleasantly until recently and it made extensive research difficult. His grandfather had told him about it at one point— when he passed on his mask. 

He looks at Patches. "Stories always have some truth to them— they have to draw from— from  _ something _ , right?" 

Patches meows.

"See? You agree with me." Clay pauses, and then looks down at the book in his hands. The cover stares back at him mockingly, and the gears in his brain begin to turn.

"Wait." The gears turn faster, and Clay lights up. "Wait! Yeah, of course— I'm just looking in the wrong place!" 

He shouldn't be looking through research tomes when he was researching something without any evidence.

"Patches, you're a genius!"

* * *

The next morning, Clay's energy is entirely renewed. When George comes to greet him, he barely even manages a morning greeting as Clay grabs his shoulders. 

"I need you to show me where the mythology section of the library is." 

George sputters a bit in surprise, recoiling from the sudden hold. "What?"

"The mythology section— the legends and myths and stuff. I've got an idea." 

George stares, and Clay wonders for a second what must be going through his head. He doesn't say anything, though, and just shakes his head in some measure of disbelief. "Alright, you nut." 

Clay's tea kettle laugh fills the morning air, and George hisses at him to shut up before they got caught.

And then they're inside the library, with George pushing Clay past the front desk and into the aisles of books before anyone could catch him inside. 

Clay doesn't even make it to his usual corner before he side-steps away from George's shoving and grabs his hands with a bright grin that is still partially concealed. He opens his mouth to ask, and George gently pops him in the face with his palm. The action doesn't hurt, but does send Clay reeling back a few steps in surprise. He stares at George with his mouth hanging open just slightly. 

George winces. "Sorry about that." 

" _ Rude _ ." 

"Listen, I thought you were about to yell—"

"I  _ never _ yell." 

George fixes Clay with a flat look before brushing past him and pointing. "Mythos and stories and stuff are around there. Are you really going to just spend all your time reading that stuff?"

"I absolutely am," Clay chirps. "Trust me, George, I know what I'm doing." 

The look that George gives him is disbelieving, but he points Clay in the right direction and leaves for his own classes after making Clay  _ promise _ to be on his best behaviour. Clay barely even waits, jumping straight into pulling books off the shelves. 

He drops a sizable pile on his table, pulls his journal free, and gets to work. 

He’s familiar with the majority of these myths, having studied them in the past, but the refreshers are nice— even if he’s mainly just skimming. He skims through the books, searching and skipping over repeat myths. He passes over the myth of the Blood God, tales of the Wither, the origins of mobs— 

It takes four books, but Clay finally finds a story about the End.

_ Separate from time, from humanity, from life, the End is both eternal and transient, fixed and ever changing, paradoxical by nature.  _

_ The End is unexplainable and unattainable, it exists in the darkest shadows and the brightest lights, and yet it is inevitable _ . 

_ From the End comes the promise of life, comes the renewal. From the End comes a story, from the End comes a chasm, from the End comes the Beginning. _

Clay brushes his thumb over the story, skimming over the handful of lines with a frown pulling at his mouth. This just reads like a more philosophical take of the story he read as a child, but he jots it down in his journal all the same.

He tosses the book haphazardly towards the pile, harder than necessary, and curses quietly when the top few books topple off the pile and onto the ground. He winces at the sound and jolts out of his chair to pick them up. He hadn’t meant to do that. 

He gathers the books again and places them one-by-one back on the stack, grumbling quietly. He picks up one of the more stout books that had landed on its face, pulling it off of the floor and sending loose papers sliding across the floor. Another curse falls from his mouth and he scoops up the papers, puffing his cheeks out behind his mask. 

He hadn't even noticed that the pages were loose. Clay flips through the papers, eyes flashing across the words on each to figure out where they belong in the book— and he pauses. 

One of the pages has faint indents in the page, barely visible, and his eyebrows jump in surprise. He brushes his thumb over the indents, pressed into pages between lines, and an idea clicks in his brain. 

Clay bolts upwards, dropping the other papers and tearing a piece of parchment from his journal. He fumbles for charcoal, producing a piece from a pocket in his bag, and lays the book's page on the table. He presses his own paper over top and presses down on the page, and gets to work coating his paper in charcoal. 

Words begin to appear across the page as Clay creates the rubbing, and he feels the thrill of discovery shoot through him. 

He skims the lines. He skims them again. He grins. He feels laughter bubble in his chest and delight swells in his core.

He leans over to transcribe the words into his journal. It wasn't much— but it was enough. 

He folds the paper with the rubbing into quarters and peeks out of his little corner. The library is fairly well-lit from the sunlight coming through the windows, but there are still lanterns burning along the walls. 

He spares a glance around, just to make sure he's alone, and pushes away from his table towards one of the lanterns. With minimal fiddling, he opens up the latch on one of the lanterns and feeds the paper into the fire. The flames lap greedily at the parchment, casting it into ashes. 

He drops the paper in the bottom of the lantern post and brushes his fingers off on his coat. 

George finds him humming happily as he tidies up his area, neatly arranging the books in piles and placing his research materials back into his bag. 

"Someone's certainly in a good mood," George comments. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing!" Clay laughs. "I just found something good, that's all."

"Uh-huh." George doesn't sound like he believes him. 

"Don't give me that." He elbows George playfully. "C'mon, let's get outta here. Lunch?"

"So long as you pay."

"Yeah, 'course."

George watches him once the two of them are out of the building. Clay can feel his gaze burning into the side of his head. 

After a lapse of silence, George prompts, "Something good?"

Clay can't help but grin. "Something  _ great _ ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by @Volarfinch //
> 
> thank you for reading, and as always please leave some comments :]   
> i'd love to see how y'all feel about the story!! :D  
> see ya next chapter!


	3. chooses to imagine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He soothes his hand across Patches' fur and reaches across his desk for the End’s storybook to reread it again._
> 
> _The only sounds in the room are the soft chime of runes, the turning of pages, and the humming of an impatient man._
> 
> Clay makes a decision and prepares

Clay's alcove is a mess. 

He isn't surprised that it is— after what he found in the library, he had gone into a bit of a fugue state doing research at home. Properly decoding the lines he had transferred didn't take very long, and the common language stares back at him now. 

_The sun is the chariot to the beginning, the moon the chariot to the end. The chariot's cycle circles the world, one must follow its path._

He'd been spending the better part of four days working through his library since he'd properly translated the words, having only recognized the symbols for "End" and "Beginning" at first— but that was still more than he had to go off of before. 

Clay drags his fingers along the map he'd sprawled out on his table. He traces the mark on the map that represents where his house is, and then uses his other hand to trace out a path. 

Once he had understood what the message said, something in him all but screamed to follow the lead. He has so little to go off of, but even a direction— _west, go west_ — is leaps and bounds better than what he had been going off before. 

His map ends after a point— the world continues past the material boundaries of the parchment, but Clay is yet to meet someone who has traversed the entire world. He tries to be satisfied with the widest map he had found in the market. 

He traces his path again— he won’t go straight west immediately, he’ll probably go further south to try and follow the sun's path more closely. 

"That shouldn't be so bad," he breathes. 

Patches meows from where she perches at the corner of the desk. She reaches forward with a delicate paw and presses it curiously to the corner of the map. Clay coos softly at the sight. 

He reaches over to give her pats before scooping her up and cradling her securely. "Awh, who's my sweet girl?" 

Patches meows again, her purr stuttering to a start at the attention, and Clay kisses the top of her head between her ears. Her purr thrums harder, and she gently headbutts Clay's chin. 

Clay shifts to hold Patches securely with one arm and reaches for his quill with his newly-freed hand. He adds 'Send Patches to Sapnap' to the list of things he’ll need to do in preparation to leave. 

The list stares back at him with its scattered itemization, scrawled out as things come to mind. There are plenty of components on that list, as well as a handful of other items— he’ll need to go to the market to pick it all up. He taps the end of the quill against his mouth as he seriously considers how plausible it would be for him to get everything all in one trip. 

Spell components, thicker clothes— he has an axe that he needs to take to a blacksmith to get it properly sharpened. He needs to groom his broom and make sure he has enough rations to hold him over until he gets to the next town…

Clay thinks back to watching his grandfather get ready for journeys, and he chews on the inside of his cheek. He writes a few more items on the list, tapping the tip of his quill against the paper. 

Patches meows and pulls herself out of his arms and up onto his shoulders, peering down at the paper from her new perch. 

Clay sets his quill down and leaves his alcove, pushing through the front door. He crosses around the house to the cellar, kneeling down and pulling a small metal ring from his pocket. 

He taps it against the lock, which groans softy under the component but unlocks with a rusty click. The cellar doors open with little issue, and Clay slides down the ladder into the musty room, reaching over for the flint and steel he keeps next to the torch. 

Sparks fly in the dim room before the torch catches and fills the cellar with warm orange light. He brushes some cobwebs away with his hand, shaking them away without batting an eyelash. The cellar has been used as storage for years— Clay moved a lot of his grandfather's belongings down there, and there they remained, bundled in cedar chests and wooden crates.

Patches leaps off of his shoulders and disappears out of sight. Clay crouches down in front of one of the chests and pushes it open, wrinkling his nose instinctively. The smell of cedar and moth balls mix in the air. He blows out a breath to try and combat the scent. 

Pushing aside layers of moth balls and fabric, Clay digs through the chest. His fingers brush against something sturdy among the contents and, with a small tug, he pulls free a partial set of armor. The leather is old, stretched and cracked in some places, but still relatively sturdy. He pulls the pieces free of the chest, setting each on the ground and surveying what he has at his disposal. 

The bracers and chestplate are still functional, and a quick check shows that the elbow and shin guards are still in good enough shape to act as functional armor. He scoops them up in his arms and clicks his tongue for Patches. 

She pokes her head out from behind a crate with a mouse dangling from her teeth and trots over happily. Clay uses his foot to close the chest, pressing the top until he hears a definitive 'click', and climbs back up out of the cellar with Patches at his heels. 

Once back inside, he lugs the armor to the table and sets it all out— just so he knows where it is for later. He does another run-through of his house, triple-checking his list to make sure that it is accurate, and nods to himself again. Content that yes, he has a coherent enough list of what to do and what to buy, he dons his mask and pulls his cloak on with a whirl. He pulls his hat on over his ears, picks up his broom, pockets his list, and bounds out of the house with his goal in mind. 

* * *

He sits down on a bench outside the blacksmith, looking down at the basket of materials sitting between his feet. He has more than enough, he thinks. His coin purse is a bit emptier than he would really like it to be, but he can probably get away with last-minute deliveries to patrons to replenish some of what he spent today. 

“I’m not going to be hurting for components at least,” he mumbles to himself as he leans forward onto his hand. 

A collection of spell components sit in a basket between his feet, and for not the first time Clay is grateful that basic witchcraft and spells aren't heavily reliant on special ingredients. He doesn’t need anything particularly high powered, just enough to get him out of trouble if he got himself caught in a tricky situation. 

Clay looks back over his shoulder at the blacksmith’s forge, hearing the sound of metal on stone. His newly sharpened axe would… hopefully not be explicitly necessary, but Clay knows what mobs can do and he knows that the further from civilization someone is, the more likely they are to encounter mobs. 

He leans over to organize the basket, just to give his hands something to do as his thoughts whirl around in his head. A bag of sugar, something he has been sorely lacking at home; vials of spices like cinnamon and pepper for potions and quick spells; paper packets of gunpowder wrapped in dry cloth; slivers of shells and a single spider’s eye, wrapped in parchment. He eyes the bundle of string, something he’s been out of for weeks, and the pieces of sponge. 

He bought rations too, wrapped in thick paper just to separate it properly from his spell ingredients. He doesn’t exactly enjoy rations— he knows he'll be able to hunt— but the jerky and bread can sustain him if he ever gets down on his luck.

Not everything in the basket is necessary, Clay knows this, but it’s nice to carry some of the ingredients that are harder to obtain on the road.

“Oi, boy.” 

The voice breaks through his thoughts, and Clay’s head whips towards the sound reflexively. The blacksmith is leaning on the sturdy support of his smithy, holding the handle of the axe with the top of the head resting on the cobbles below their feet. 

“Finished?” Clay guesses. 

“It’s ‘bout as sharp as I can get it, kid.” 

Clay decides to not comment that he is in fact over twenty and not really a kid anymore. He pulls another emerald from his coin purse and presses it into the man’s hand. He grips the handle and tests the weight, gauging the feel of the weapon as he does. He can see the quality difference, the blade of the axe gleaming wicked in his hand. 

“Thanks.” He nods. 

The blacksmith’s gaze flickers across him as if properly taking in his appearance again. “Pleasure doin’ business, witch.” 

Clay just nods again and turns on heel. He scoops up his basket, tying strings of thick twine around the handles and hooking it over the end of his broom. He can feel the stare of the blacksmith linger on his back but doesn’t turn his head— the blacksmith was probably just younger than his grandfather, likely having been raised to look to witches and magic with scorn and suspicion. He doesn’t take it to heart. 

He kicks off from the road and soars off down the street, back towards home. 

The man wasn’t distrustful, and he did good work. Clay checks the head of the axe to make sure of it, running his thumb along the flat edge to avoid cutting himself. The blacksmith had probably been treated by George’s family at one time. He probably understands that magic can be useful. 

Most people in town are like that, and Clay has learned not to mind when eyes catch on him for too long. No one has ever said anything, and vendors don’t care if their patrons are witches so long as they get paid. 

He listens to the clinking of glass in the hanging basket and pushes the interaction free of his mind, hooking his ankles together and leaning forward to pick up the pace slightly. 

* * *

The first thing he does when he gets home is set the basket on the table, shove books out of the way on his desk, and set up his brewing stand. Glass bottles are filled with water before he goes through the process of brewing awkward potions, and then the bottles are set aside. Cold resistance, speed, and recovery potions are set to steep and Clay gets to work on packing up other materials. 

His research materials are pared down: his grimoire, a single journal, charcoal and a pencil are placed into his bag, along with his wrapped components all meticulously organized. A change of clothes is pressed into the bottom, rations are stored away, and he rolls up his map and tucks it into the empty space. 

He goes back to the cellar to dig through chests, finding a compass and a pocket watch among some of his grandfather’s old things. He finds a package of candles with seals carved into the sides and takes those as well. He brings his flint and steel back up with him, too.

His newly-finished potions are tucked away, and Clay paces circles around his kitchen as he thinks. He goes through motions, picking up Patches’ bowl and refilling the food. He taps on the manual feeder he had cobbled together, refills that as well, and sets Patches’ bowl back down.

She slips between his feet to sniff at her bowl while Clay leaves the kitchen and walks circles around the sitting room. He has everything he needs, but it feels too late in the day to leave. 

He finds himself back in his alcove, tidying up papers and stacks of books. He pulls free a piece of parchment to try and draw out a map from memory. He sketches what he can remember, detailing trails and jotting down biomes and what he remembers from where. He folds the drawings into quarters and lights the edges on fire, allowing the paper to catch and burn away to ash. 

Reflexively re-tracing his path from memory soothes some of the jumpiness that twists through his muscles.

Patches leaps up onto his lap, her claws digging into the fabric of his pants as she kneads against his leg. Clay looks down at her and scritches beneath her chin with a soft smile. 

“Can you think of anything I’m forgetting, sweetheart?” 

Patches blinks at him and butts her head against his chest, purring. 

Clay laughs, scooping her up and kissing the side of her head. Patches squirms in the hold as Clay nuzzles his face into her fur. “Good kitty.” 

She meows, and Clay lets her settle on his lap again. His gaze flickers to the calendar and he wonders how long he’ll be gone. He can’t even begin to put an estimate on the time. He soothes his hand across Patches' fur and reaches across his desk for the End’s storybook to reread it again. 

The only sounds in the room are the soft chime of runes, the turning of pages, and the humming of an impatient man. 

* * *

Clay lays awake that night with Patches curled up on his chest, and he listens. 

He can hear the sound of runes twinkling faintly downstairs. He can feel the faint thrumming of magic in the air. He closes his eyes to just _listen_ , to take in the dark, warm, and _safe_ environment. 

His eyes stay closed for long enough that he begins to drift off and, for a moment, he thinks he can hear music.

* * *

Clay is awake and dressed before the sun is even in the sky the next morning. He is outside locking up his cellar as the sky begins to fill with light. 

He stands on his porch, looking up towards the sky as his breath steams in the cold air. He can’t see any clouds in the sky yet and the air is still. If it were warmer, he muses, it would be a perfect morning to leave. 

He goes back inside and beelines straight towards the pile of armor. The leather is cold, even through his layers, but it doesn’t take him long to don what he had hauled up. He flexes his fingers and shifts around to make sure his movement isn’t hindered and nods slowly to himself once he’s comfortable with his ability to move. 

He kneels down to scratch Patches between the ears as he passes by her. "You'll behave while I'm gone, right, girl?"

Patches blinks up at him without making a sound. 

"I'll leave Nick a note for when he comes by, you should have enough food set out for, like, a week." Clay stands and crosses to the table. He hooks his axe across his back, strings his compass to his belt for easy access, and tucks the pocket watch into a pocket in his sweater. "So… you should be good." 

He turns around to look back at his cat to find her already out of sight, and he blinks. 

"... Uh… Okay." 

He pulls his travelling cloak from where he had draped it over the base of the staircase and clips it around his shoulders. The material is heavy, padded and warm, and short enough to be unencumbering. His hat stays hung up— he doesn’t need to flaunt his status as a witch and a charmed hat is essentially a red flag telling anyone what he is He rubs his thumb along the thick material of his cloak, letting the texture ground him before he walks back into his alcove to pick up his bag. 

He situates himself, his bag crossing his shoulders. He goes through each room to blow out any candles that are still burning— one by one, the rooms in his house go dark. 

"Patches!" Clay calls, hovering by the door. 

He waits to hear the patter of her paws across the floor, but nothing comes. 

He tries again. "...Patches?"

His mouth twists to a small frown when he receives no response. "... Well— _bye_ , I guess. Be good." 

He picks up his mask and secures it in place before stepping out onto the porch of his house. He taps the metal ring to his door and listens to the lock slide into place, bolting shut.

One last look back at his house, and he presses his knuckles against the wood of the door, tracing along the grain with the pads of his fingers. He rests his forehead against it, his mask a barrier between himself and the wood, and he breathes out a soft word. 

The wood warms beneath his hands, green lights threading through the grain in a flash before fading away. He had refreshed the wards on his house the night before, so activating them was the final step for protecting his house. Sapnap and George can still get in, but it is protected from anyone he’s unfamiliar with, thankfully. 

Pushing off the door, Clay steps off of the porch and onto the gravel path. He swings his leg over his broom and pushes himself off the ground, swirling up to the sky. 

He pauses and checks his compass, watching the needle as he orients himself. He pulls his broom towards the west. The sun is low in the sky at his back— he has a full day of travel ahead of him, and a fairly good idea of where he needs to be going. 

Clay hooks his ankles beneath him, pushes his broom forward, and takes off through the sky without a glance back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by @VolarFinch //  
> I've gone back and edited ch1 a little bit to add a little more context to some of what I wrote in this chapter, so if you've been keeping up with this so far, maybe go give ch1 another skim! :]
> 
> thank you so much for reading! things start to kick off this chapter, haha, and next chapter is the official beginning of journey!  
> I hope you guys like what i'm doing so far, and enjoy what's coming! :]


	4. noise of its thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So much time in the sky gives him plenty of time to think, and think, and think._
> 
> Clay spends time traveling!

Clay loves flying. 

Clay is starting to realize that constant flying gets uncomfortable after about six hours. 

The sun is high in the sky, the beams of light warming his back through the chill of the air. Clay chooses to focus on that instead of the way that his shins prickle unpleasantly with sleep. Dismounting from his broom later that night is going to be uncomfortable at best, but he tries to avoid thinking about that for now.

So much time in the sky gives him plenty of time to think, and think, and think. 

It starts off with the muddled labyrinth of thoughts surrounding the End, a passive attempt to unravel the tangled yarn that makes up that topic in Clay's brain. Thoughts tend to run together and twist around each other, leaving him frustrated at best as he tries to parse out coherent thought from bored fantasy. From the End it moves to his preparations and leaving his home behind— he could have at least sent for Drista, or one of the other family members. He squashes that regret quickly enough— he loves his family, but Clay isn't sure he could trust his sister to house-sit and have it be in one piece when he gets back. Plus, Sapnap has a habit of swinging by fairly often and so he knows someone will be there to check on things, at least. 

He hopes Patches won't miss him too much. She is a _really fucking smart_ cat, so Clay rarely feels the need to worry about her… Maybe he’s going to miss her more than she’ll miss him, if he is being honest with himself. 

Clay is pulled out of his thoughts by his broom careening, gusts of icy wind slicing through him in a way that chills him to the bone. He thinks that he really should have expected this and angles his broom to descend. He’s still in the taiga, the trees swaying in the wind beneath him, meaning he would have some cover provided if he got just below the treetops.

Content with his plan, Clay dips into the trees and allows his broom to sway as he weaves between treetops and branches. The wind is better now with the trees acting as a buffer— not perfectly nonexistent, but enough that he isn't being pushed around in the current.

Clay reaches for his compass to check his path again, the needle wavering beneath the glass casing. He shifts the direction of his broom to point just slightly more south, and then tilts his head back to look towards the sky. 

The sun isn't exactly overhead yet— while it's high in the sky from the progression of the day, the sun itself is still on the south side of the horizon. He notes that he has a while to go until he’ll be directly at that axis, so for now he will be content with just continuing to fly _west_.

Flying for journeys is... boring, he decides, and wonders for a moment if it's just a him thing. He loves flying when he gets to have that boost of adrenaline, but he can't waste components on the first day— and it's a researching expedition. He doesn't have a set destination and, as much as his brain aches at the thought of a continuously slow-going journey, he doesn't want to miss anything potentially important. 

The trees begin to thicken somewhat further in the day, enough that Clay has to actively swerve between them to avoid getting caught in any of the trees. With a soft curse, he pulls his broom back and goes back above the treeline. 

He flies until the sun begins to dip towards the horizon, the sky beginning to saturate with streaks of golds, reds, and purples. The faint threads of sunlight warm his front, and Clay decides that this is probably the best part of this trip— or at least the most _scenic._

He's grateful that his mask keeps the sun from blinding him, but he still instinctually shields his eyes with one hand. He waits until the sun has dipped past the horizon, leaving its trail of stars in the dying rose of the light, and begins to descend. 

He has to maneuver carefully as he goes below the treeline, but soon enough the toes of his boots touch solid ground. He lets his feet settle flat in the grass as he dismounts from his broom and reaches for a nearby tree to catch himself as phantom pins and needles prickle along beneath his skin. He wiggles his toes, rocking back and forth on his feet to try and restore some of the circulation as he looks around and listens. 

The darkness of the night is only intensified by the looming shapes of the trees, and Clay makes a mental note to keep his ears open for potential mobs. 

He hums softly as he begins gathering wood, setting his bag down as he climbs trees and snaps off small branches to burn. He hears the soft sound of foliage shifting, but a breeze filters through and brushes at his side and he forces himself to relax. Just nature sounds. He’s fine. 

He crouches near where he had dropped his bag, huddling under the base of a tree. The branches and wood scraps are woven together into something usable, and Clay digs through the outer pocket of his bag for his flint and steel. 

There is the flicker of sparks that shed sparks of light across his face, but after a few tries the wood catches. Clay reaches forward with a hand, breathes out a soft word, and pulls the fire forth from the embers. The flames flicker at the edges of the wood before they rise, giving off faint heat as a reprieve from the cold night. 

The crackling of the wood soothes some of the unease settled in his gut, and Clay pulls his bag into his lap. 

He hears a noise and pauses. 

He stares at his lap, and the bag he has had slung over his shoulder all day. 

Something moves beneath the leather cover, and Clay moves without thinking to unhook the top of his bag and peer inside. Eyes flash in the darkness as they look back at him, and Clay can only stare in bafflement at the feline lying curled up, comfortable and content, in the top of his bag. 

“ _Patches?_ ”

She purrs.

* * *

The next day, Clay spends most of his flight with Patches curled up on his shoulders and simply watching. He spent most of the night before talking outloud, trying to puzzle through how the _hell_ his cat had gotten into his bag before remembering her early disappearance. Patches had sat in his bag and purred all the while, pleased with herself for tagging along, and Clay wasn’t entirely willing to fly a full day’s journey back to return her to their house. 

“You can stop being so smug,” Clay grumps. 

Patches purrs and flicks her tail against his cheek. 

“Can you at least perch in my _bag_?” 

Claws dig into his cloak in response and Clay sighs. Patches stays perched on his shoulders, and Clay pushes his broom forward more. 

* * *

Clay isn’t in a hurry and has no set destination, so he wanders. 

After about three days, he realizes that full days of flying leaves him sore and uncomfortable by the evening, and so he devises a system. He flies in the morning and during the later afternoons, when the weather is coldest, in order to be closer to the sun. He spends the high of the days walking through the forest, his broom slung over his back and his axe in hand— just in case.

He lands again during evenings, strikes a fire, feeds himself. Patches often slinks away to hunt and, once the both of them are fed, Clay stomps out his fire and climbs into a tree to curl up in his bedroll and sleep. 

He finds a westward running stream and begins to stick closer to the shore. It gives him the opportunity to fish, to gather berries, and gives him a wider field of vision. There are enough divots and overhangs to keep him out of sight and out of reach, so sometimes he camps out in those during the night. 

While he hasn’t run into mobs so far, Clay has no real desire to tempt Lady Luck by being careless. 

Patches spends a lot of time perched on Clay’s shoulders, but by the end of the first week she spends just as much time trotting along at his heels as she does clinging to his shoulders or sleeping in his bag. 

The stream begins to twist north and Clay sets up camp in the curve of the stream for the day. Patches sets at the edge of the shore, peering down into the water while Clay casts out a fishing line in the water. He spends the afternoon fishing, and sets up a campfire as the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

He pulls a fish off of the stake he’d left it cooking on, peeling away pieces of meat and eating with his fingers. He passes some to Patches as he goes, watching the way that the fading light reflects off of the water of the stream. 

Clay can feel eyes watching him as he eats. His gaze drifts towards the woods and his axe sits heavy against his back. 

The trees get denser further away from the stream, so Clay can only make out the motion— not what is moving. He slowly moves a hand back to rest on the hilt of his axe, watching the movement for three silent heartbeats. 

A wolf emerges from the treeline and stands at the top of the incline, staring down at him. Clay stares back as two more wolves step free of the shadows, and a pup tumbles out of the foliage after them. Patches sits by Clay’s knee.

The space is still and silent.

Clay lets go of his axe and slowly reaches for one of the fish by the fire. It’s safe to assume that the wolves are watching his every move, so he moves slowly as he plucks a fish free of its stake. He pauses for a while before he tosses the fish up towards the pack. 

One of the wolves snaps it out of the air and the hostility in the air dissolves. 

The head of the pack picks its way down towards Clay and hovers a safe distance away. He doesn’t blame it for not wanting to get closer, and simply tosses another fish its way. It picks the fish off of the ground and draws back, and Clay watches as it climbs back to the rest of its pack. 

The pack goes back into the forest, and Clay smothers the fire. 

He finds the slightest overhang to sleep under, wraps himself in his bedroll, and closes his eyes to sleep.

* * *

When he wakes up, claws are digging into the collar of his cloak and the world is still dark. Patches is perched protectively on his collar with her hackles raised, but she is otherwise silent.

Clay brings a hand up to gently touch her back, which only serves to have her dig her claws deeper into his cloak. He keeps his breathing quiet and shallow and he llistens, trying to figure out what, exactly, his companion is so aggressive towards.

He hears the creaking of bones and freezes. 

He tries to press himself more into the shadows. He holds his breath. 

The creaking and clattering of bones continue at a slow, steady pace. It sounds like it’s coming from above him. 

Fucking skeletons.

Clay vaguely remembers learning about them— about how something malevolent had sewn life back into abandoned bones, raised the dead and fed on their jealousy of the living. Skeletons can catch someone between the eyes with frightening accuracy, and it was rare that they have to shoot more than once. 

The sound ceases somewhat and Clay tries to look up.

A skull stares in his direction. He doesn’t know if the undead have any real concept of life or any way to discern what is living and what is decaying. He feels like moving is going to lead to that bow being drawn and aimed at him, and he has no desire for an arrow to the throat today.

The skeleton stares back at him, and Clay is glad his expression is hidden behind his mask. 

But the skeleton moves closer, and it draws its bow. 

Clay curses and jolts out of his spot, jerking away as an arrow sprouts from the ground where his shoulder just was. He grabs his axe, wrenching it free of its holder and using it to bat away another arrow that comes flying his way. 

He should get on his broom, he should go—

A growl tears through the air and Clay watches a wolf burst from the trees. It collides with the skeleton, claws outstretched and mouth open in a snarl. 

The skeleton’s bow is sent flying with its arm, and the angry yapping of the wolves is enough to encourage Clay to keep his distance. 

Patches scrambles to his shoulders as Clay ducks out of his little hidey-hole, sprinting towards the bow. He can see the limb attached to it shaking slightly, trembling as it begins to draw back towards the skeleton. Clay plants his boot firmly to keep the arm from moving. 

He rips the bow free and looks back at the skeleton, which has been mostly taken apart by the wolf that attacked it.

The wolf looks up at him with a ferocious glint in its eye, a curved bone held tightly between its teeth. The end is cracked from where it was torn from the skeleton’s ribcage. Clay’s gaze flickers towards the quiver of arrows and back to the wolf. He weighs his options.

He doesn’t try to approach, and instead backs up and retreats back to his hiding spot. He curls his legs up closer to his body, closing his eyes, and he does a quick mental inventory. He didn’t get injured, he is _fine_ , it’s just the adrenaline beginning to wind down.

He clutches the bow in his hand and slowly breathes out. He holds the weapon out to observe it, fingers tracing along the wood of the weapon as he determines if it’s useful. The wood is worn and the string taut, the wear noticeable under his fingertips. It has obviously seen better days.

...But he doesn’t have a bow at the moment.

He quietly adds the bow to his inventory, hooking it alongside his axe. When morning comes, he’ll go and grab that quiver. A few arrows are better than none at all, anyways.

The adrenaline is starting to ebb away, but Clay listens to the howl of a wolf nearby and decides that he won’t be able to sleep even if he tries.

He waits out the night, waits until he can see the beginning of the sun through the branches before he pushes himself free. Patches still clings to his shoulders.

His feet carry him to where the skeleton had been before— most of the larger bones have been stripped from its frame, leaving some meager pieces behind on the ground. He scoops up the quiver, counts the arrows inside, and adds it to the collection of weaponry across his back.

He returns to the remains of his campfire from the night before and is keenly aware of the wolf pack’s presence.

Clay crouches next to the stream, cupping cold water in his hands. Eyes are burning into the back of his head as he lifts his mask and splashes his face with cold water. He scrubs his hands and neck free of dirt. He pulls bread from his bag for breakfast and feeds Patches what is left of the fish from last night. 

Patches clambers into his bag to rest while Clay swaps his axe for his broom.

He looks back towards the edges of the woods that the pack had emerged from previously to see the packleader watching from a safe distance.

He raises a hand in a greeting. “Thank you.”

The wolf doesn’t give any response. 

Clay feels a little bit silly— it’s not like an animal can really answer him. 

He returns his mask to its proper place, mounts his broom, and pushes off of the ground. 

* * *

He keeps forgetting how dense the taiga is.

Clay lives at the edge of the taiga, his house situated where two biomes gradient into one another. He used the taiga for hunting and gathering components, but the town he frequented most often— George’s home— was situated in the plains.

He hopes he can find some semblance of another biome soon, but the trees of the taiga only get taller and the air only gets colder. 

He looks distrustingly to the grey skies as he flies. He hadn’t seen any signs of the weather turning for the worst yet, but the lack of sun is making for a long and miserable flight. 

He keeps pepper powder under his tongue to keep himself warm and cradles Patches against his chest to keep her out of the wind and the cold. 

His breath fogs in the cold air, and he lets out a low, steady stream of breath. The pepper under his tongue leads to the air curling and steaming with an audible hiss. He thinks about doing this as a child with Nick, and watching Nick learn to use magic to “breathe” fire. 

Sapnap doesn’t do fancy tricks like that as often, but they’re always fun to see. Clay should try sometime.

He inhales and then exhales another puff of hot air.

He uses his free hand to check his pocket watch and determine if he should keep flying higher or not. It’s midday, he would usually be walking by now… 

Something cold comes to rest on his neck. The prickling chill begins to creep into his face and into his hands, and with a start Clay realizes that it’s _snowing_. There is just a powdering of it, drifting down in slow, harmless flakes. 

He shuffles awkwardly, tucking his pocket watch away and pulling his hood up to cover his hair and ears again. He keeps going west. 

The snow falls heavier, and Clay pushes himself up— above the trees, for some kind of vantage point. He surveys the forest below him and squints. His gaze flickers as he looks for signs of civilization. There were other villages in the taiga, he knew that, but he’d never properly travelled this far west. 

He can see a coil of smoke in the distance, curling above the trees and dissipating in the air, and he pushes his broom forward. He doesn’t want to risk getting caught in the snow at night if he could help it, and if there’s smoke— well, that promises a chance for a village, or a lodge, or something. 

He just hopes they don’t mind witches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta this chapter (hopefully it's not super noticeable ^^;;).  
> For those of you who were concerned about Patches: that cat is probably more competent than every human in this story, I can assure you  
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!! please drop a comment, the validation fuels me to write  
> see ya next chapter!! :]


	5. of shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Can I get some shelter here 'till the snow stops, at least? If not, like, here— a stall or some place dry would be fine. I can really just stay out of the way, if that's a problem."_
> 
> _There's silence for a moment before the brunette nudges his blonde brother. "C'mon, Big Man," he prompts. "You think we'll ever hear the end of it if we jus' kick some guy out in the snow?"_
> 
> Clay finds a place to wait out the weather.

The snow is falling heavier now as Clay finds the source of the smoke. A brief feeling of relief washes over him as he sees a lodge situated along a path— one that probably leads to a village or something, so he has  _ options  _ if he's turned away.

He circles away from the smoke and lands in the thick of the trees, dismounting and swinging his broom up to its carrying point across his back in a fluid, practiced motion. 

He holds Patches close as he jogs through the trees and Patches, to her credit, digs her claws into the front of his tunic instead of the meat of his arm. The front windows of the lodge are covered by curtains, but lanterns hang framing the doorway and cast warm light across the entrance. 

Snow dusts the ground, beginning to stick as Clay half-jogs through the thickening flurry and raps his knuckles against the heavy doors. 

He tucks his arm back under his cloak, holding Patches more securely and using his cloak to shelter her from the snow. He can hear the sounds of shuffling inside, just the faintest hint of sound, and then quiet. The sound of voices, close enough to the door to be heard but not distinguishable, and then nothing.

Clay goes to knock again at the same instant that the door flies open and he jerks back as a blade is flashed  _ far _ too close to his face. He stares at the sword for a fraction of a second before his gaze travels to the one holding it.

A kid— tall and scruffy but unmistakably a child, with a round face and large blue eyes that glint with a challenge. Clay isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that this kid is just about his height. He doesn’t ruminate on it for long, because the tip of the sword is shoved even closer to him and he doesn't really want his mask getting chipped.

"An' who're you?" The teenager sounds aggressive, bristling like a cat. "What do you want? We don't buy things from traveling merchants, yanno."

_ Travelling—? _ Clay flattens his tongue against the roof of his mouth to not give some back some kind of retort. Sapnap and George laugh at his comebacks, sure, but his sarcasm might not be so welcome here.

"Not a merchant." He raises one hand in surrender, adjusting to continue cradling Patches beneath his cloak. His gaze flickers to the boy behind the blonde— shorter, with darker hair and curious eyes and holding a shovel like a bludgeon. "A traveller, absolutely, but not a merchant. Not selling anything. I just need somewhere to stay to wait out the weather."

The teenager levels a distrustful glare, brow furrowing as he seems to calculate… something. Probably trying to figure out if he’s lying, Clay thinks.

The other one tugs at his shirt and leans to be in Clay's field of vision, and he is staring past him and out at the weather.

"Can I get some shelter here 'till the snow stops, at least? If not, like,  _ here—  _ a stall or some place dry would be fine. I can really just stay out of the way, if that's a problem."

There's silence for a moment before the brunette nudges his blonde brother. "C'mon, Big Man," he prompts. "You think we'll ever hear the end of it if we jus' kick some guy out in the snow?"

"Sam's too nice, we can't just let some rando from the woods into the house!" Clay wonders if this kid is trying to whisper> He’s doing a terrible job of it, loud enough to be easily overheard.

"Okay, but do  _ you _ wanna hear Sam's 'disappointed' voice—"

Patches meows under Clay's cloak, and the gazes of both teenagers swerve towards him. 

"Did you just  _ meow _ ?” Blonde stares at him like he’s crazy. “What are you, some kinda weirdo?"

"Wh— no,  _ I _ didn't meow—" Clay lifts his cloak with his free arm to show Patches, still curled in the curve of his occupied arm. " _ —She _ did." 

"Cat!" The smaller of the two looks delighted at the sight of Patches and lowers his shovel. "Alright, you can come in!"

"Wh—" Blonde sputters. " _ Tubbo! _ " 

"I'm not leaving a cat out in the cold." Tubbo responds, and lightly shoves the other one with his elbow. "C'mon in, guy!" 

Clay ducks into the lodge before the invitation could be revoked and the warm air is a welcome change to the chill of the snow outside.

The two teenagers are still bickering as Clay shakes himself free of snow and lowers his hood, and he stands with Patches cradled more obviously in his arms as they go back and forth. 

"Hey, hey, stranger!" Tubbo cuts off halfway through his bickering with his brother, eyes bright in delight. "What's your cat's name?"

"What's  _ your _ name?" Blonde adds. 

Clay's mask mostly hides his smile, but he shifts his hold on Patches to hold her under her front legs. "Her name is Patches. You can call me Dream."

The name is a familiar coat to wear, an extra layer that he slides on without issue.

"What the fuck kind of name is  _ Dream _ ?" 

"It's pretty weird," Tubbo agrees. "Well, I'm Tubbo, and this is Tommy."

"Tubbo's sort of a weird name too," Clay points out, not unkindly. He sets Patches down on the ground to let her have some level of autonomy again, and she stretches out before trotting over to Tubbo and sniffing at his feet. 

"I mean, I guess so." 

Tommy clears his throat. "Well you can call me 'Big T', weirdo."

"Tommy works fine." Clay slides his hands into his pockets, feeling the awkward shift of his weaponry and his broom across his back. Tubbo and Tommy still have their weapons in hand. There is some awkward silence where Clay observes the both of them, and they both stare back at him. 

"So, are you gonna take off the mask, or…?" Tommy prompts. "Gotta admit it's a little weird, guy." 

"I'm fine." Clay pushes down the urge to readjust his mask, even if he doesn't need to. "Mind if I ask who 'Sam' is?"

"Oh!" Tubbo claps his hands together. "Yeah, Sam! Sam's great. He's my mentor!" 

"Mentor—?"

Clay is cut off by the sound of rumbling and muffled explosion, and he watches Tommy slowly raise a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. It’s almost comedic.

"Oh, shit—" Tubbo scurries out of the room and Clay follows behind without even thinking twice, his curiosity piqued. 

Tommy squawks in protest and follows after, falling into step behind Clay as Tubbo leads the way through the house. He pulls a lever that retracts the wall with the clicking of machinery. Clay watches, dumbfounded, as the walls click a few ticks as they open. His brain immediately begins to put together the puzzle.

Tubbo calls, "Are you okay, Sam?"

A voice calls back, "I'm fine, Tubbo!"

The pieces click into place and Clay's realization falls from his mouth before he can stop it. "Oh. He teaches you redstone." 

Tubbo turns to look at Clay, eyebrows raised. "Wha— how'd you know?"

"This is redstone machinery." Clay knocks on the wall next to the lever. From what little he can see, it’s  _ complex  _ redstone, too. He gives a low whistle of appreciation. 

"What? No, no it's not, s'not anything big like that—" 

"Can I go look?" Clay points past the door— it just leads to a platform, and he thinks that the other side is probably some sort of a drop, or ladders out of sight. 

Tubbo already looks nervous, tapping his fingers together. "Oh, well, I don't think—"

"S'none of your business, stranger! You wanna be kicked back in the snow?" Tommy speaks up to cut off some of Tubbo's babbling. 

"I doubt you could physically kick me out," Dream fires back, and Clay closes his eyes behind his mask. Old habits die hard, and his usual picking back is not the way to go right now.

Tommy bristles slightly. "Oh, you want to bet?"

Clay raises his hands in a show of peace and takes a half-step away. "Not really. Don't want you guys rescinding the offer to stay."

His gaze flickers back towards the door and he raises his eyebrows as he watches Patches slip past, perching near the edge of the platform and looking down. Her tail swings slowly behind her before she leaps off of the platform and down where Clay can't easily follow.  _ Lucky her. _

He backs away from the door, letting Tubbo shove down the lever and close off the odd little entrance. 

Clay steps into the open main room of the house, hooking his hands in his pocket. "So what do I owe you, then?"

Tubbo and Tommy look at each other, and then back at Clay. 

Clay stares back from behind his mask. "Y'know. Payment?" 

"I think that'd be Sam's ch—"

"You can go mining with me!" 

Tommy's voice overpowers Tubbo's, and he has a wide grin across his face. He seems proud of himself for the decision he made. "You can help me mine out materials for me."

Clay snorts. "Yeah, okay. Manual labor sounds good." 

"Not like you'd be any good at it." Tommy sounds smug. 

"Oho, kid, that sounds like a  _ challenge _ ." Dream grins, and he can see Tubbo struggling to bite back some kind of a smile. Tommy's eyes flashed in delight at the edge to Dream's voice and his grin twists even more to show sharp, bracketed teeth.

"Doubt you've ever done a day of work in your life, stranger. You wanna prove me wrong?" 

Dream laughs at the accusation. It’s a hell of a claim, especially while weaponry clinks softly on his back whenever he moves too much. 

He confirms, "So we're going mining, then?"

"We're going mining!"

Turns out that they didn't even have to go outside to reach Tommy's mine. Tommy essentially dragged Clay along after demanding he leave behind anything that could hinder him, and Clay wonders at the railway system that Tommy dragged him to. 

The end of the tracks opens to a wide room and a descending staircase. Tommy hauls a pickaxe out of a chest to thrust into Clay's hands, picks up a shovel, and leads the way down the staircase and into the mine below. 

After about an hour of mining, Clay thinks to ask: "So what exactly are we looking for?"

Tommy looks up from where he was leaning on the wall, and squints at the stone that Clay pulls out of the way. He uses his shovel to help pull some of the stone debris out of Clay's way. "Diamonds."

Clay pauses. " _ Diamonds?" _ He parrots. 

" _ Yeah _ ! I mean, iron is fine too, but diamonds would be ideal." He gives Clay a toothy grin and Clay chuckles. 

"Diamonds. Sure. That's a big order for a kid."

"I'm a perfectly capable  _ teenager _ , thank you."

"Uh-huh." Dream digs the pickaxe into the stone again, watching it pull away to reveal some of the dirt underneath. "I don't think we're gonna find any diamonds, dude."

"You never know! May as well use the labor, though." 

Clay takes the shovel from Tommy to start pulling at the dirt and wipes sweat away from the lower half of his face. Sweat pools uncomfortably beneath his mask, but he stubbornly keeps it in place. 

"That not uncomfortable?" Tommy prods Clay in the shoulder. "That thing on your face?"

"S'fine."

"Not gonna take it off? Can you even  _ see  _ with it on?" 

"I can see just fine." Dirt crumbles towards Clay's feet as he pulls it free from the stone. "I can see  _ great _ , actually." 

"I don't really believe you." 

"Then don't believe me." 

"Did some kid just, like, scribble on the front?" Tommy's hand moves towards his face and Clay instinctively throws an arm up to bat it away 

"Dude." Clay's tone is flat— with his expression largely hidden behind his mask, his words are the only thing really able to get across that Tommy was reaching a boundary he really shouldn't poke. 

" _ Dude _ ," Tommy mimics him, his accent twisting the words oddly, but he surprisingly doesn't push. "You're 'bout to hit stone again, green man." 

Clay's response is only delayed by half a heartbeat. "Then give me the pickaxe, or I'll beat the stone with the shovel."

"I'll beat  _ you _ with a shovel."

"You don't even  _ have _ a shovel."

* * *

When the two of them make their way out of the mine roughly four hours after they'd gone in, Clay's arms are starting to ache from hauling around the pickaxe. Tommy is dragging his feet, and both of them are covered in sweat and coal dust from a rich vein they had found when squabbling about the possibility of finding  _ any _ iron ore.

Clay carries a box full of the coal they gathered while Tommy's hands and shirt are dusted red from the dormant redstone dust he carries in a bucket. 

"We're ba—ck," Tommy yells, plunking the bucket down at the entrance to the rail system, and he waves his hand for Clay to do the same. 

Clay does so without question or complaint, glad to give his arms a break from the mass of manual labor. It was like being a teenager at home again, he muses. Doing chores and wanting to collapse on the floor and not move after a particular grueling day.

"Welcome back!" 

Clay perks up a little bit at the sound of the voice from earlier, and he brushes himself off as much as he can to be semi-presentable.

Tommy yells back, "You done in your workshop for the night?" before he stomps into the house proper with Clay trailing after him, curious to put a face to the voice. 

The first thing that Clay notices is that Sam is  _ fucking tall _ . Clay is by no means  _ short, _ but Sam is a good head taller than him. He's heavily tanned, hair an odd mossy kind of green, and— 

He has a mask. Clay suppresses a jolt of surprise at the sight of it— it isn’t that he’s startled to see another mask, but— it’s more that the mask is startlingly similar to the illustrations he’s seen of creepers in the past. Actually, the mask itself looks to be made of the same sturdy and overgrown mossy material that creepers are covered in, and he wonders about the origins for a heartbeat before pushing that curiosity aside. 

Sam's mouth is visible, though, and he offers a smile that feels almost blinding. "Oh, hello! Are you Dream?" 

"That'd be me. You're the redstone master?"

"Oh! Did Tubbo tell you?" Sam sounds surprised. 

"Nah." Dream shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Well—  _ yeah _ , but not intentionally? He confirmed it. I guessed." 

Sam perks up a bit and he marvels at how easy it is to read this guy,even while his face is hidden. "Oh, cool! You know about redstone, then?"

"Only what I've read," he admits. "I understand basic circuits 'n stuff, but I don't really mess with that kind of stuff. The complex mechanics elude me, so seeing it is really impressive. Did you design that door?"

Sam laughs. "Yeah, I did. I draft up most of my designs— I've been kind of teaching Tubbo here and there. Did he really call me a master?"

"A mentor," he corrects. 

"That fits better." Sam nods, folding his arms. "Tubbo told me that Tommy dragged you down to go mine with him? You really didn't have to— sorry that you got dragged into his shenanigans." 

Clay shrugs. "Eh, it's nothing. A little manual labor never hurts." 

"Well, thanks for being a good sport about it at least." There is an apologetic note to Sam's voice anyways and Clay fights the urge to tell him to not apologize. 

"Gotta pay my keep somehow." 

"Oh! Right, Tubbo did mention that." Sam nods. "We don't get strangers around here super often. I hope they weren't too, uh… aggressive?"

"Only a little." He chooses not to mention the sword shoved in his face. "You happen to see a cat around here?"

Sam tilts his head. "A cat?" A pause. "Oh! Yeah! One snuck into my workshop— I brought it back up here…" 

"Cool, cool. She wasn't too much of a pest or anything, right?"

"She's yours?" Sam asks. When Clay nods, Sam laughs a little and rubs his neck with a gloved hand. "She wasn't too bad! I just, uh— I'm kinda allergic, s'all, so…" 

Clay winces a bit apologetically. "Oh! Shit, sorry about that.”

"It's fine."

A meow catches their attention and Clay turns towards it to see Patches sitting in the middle of the floor, tail lashing in irritation. 

"D'you want food?" Clay asks. 

Patches meows. Clay walks over to pick her up, and his eyebrows shoot up behind his mask as Patches turns her head away, nose scrunched up. 

"Hey!" 

She meows more forcefully, and Clay takes a moment to catch a whiff of himself. 

"...Ah." Clay looks back at Sam. "Do you, uh— have somewhere I could bathe or something, maybe?"

"South side of the house." Sam sounds amused. "There's a cauldron system set up there to heat the water." 

"Cool." Clay gives a thumbs up. "Thanks."

"No problem."

He finds where he stashed his belongings, scoops them up, and wanders back in that direction.

When he comes back, newly clean of sweat and coal dust, he finds Sam crouched in front of the fireplace and stirring something hanging over the fire. 

He comes and crouches next to him. "Dinner?" He guesses. 

Sam jerks at the sound of his voice, grip slipping on the ladle in his hand. Clay's hand shoots out to catch it and he offers it back.

"Ah... thanks." Sam takes it back. " _ Jeez _ , you move quietly." 

"As quiet as a guy my height can be," he agrees. "A lotta practice."

"That sounds  _ so  _ suspicious," Sam laughs. "Tommy thinks you're super suspicious, by the way." 

"Yeah, I figured." Clay watches the way the fire licks at the bottom of the pot and thinks back to Sapnap for a moment. "He seemed more than happy to drag me around, though."

"Tommy's his own boss." Sam stirs the pot again before he props the lid partially open on the top. "And he likes to be the boss of everyone else, too." 

"Is he your brother or something?"

Sam laughs. "No! No, gods, no. I'm not related to either him or Tubbo— but they're sort of a package deal, so they're just here." 

"You make it sound like they just showed up one day and settled in." 

"They basically did." Sam stands up and walks towards the kitchen, and Clay hops up to follow. "They're both from this village, y'know. Tubbo asked me to teach him about redstone— since I'm the only one around who works with it really and I'm the best with it— and when he moved in for lessons, Tommy just sorta came along with him. Complained about where he was staying and stuck around here 'to make sure Tubbo's in a good place'. He just took over my spare room." 

Clay stifles a snicker. "Sounds like a hell of a kid." 

"Yeah, they both are. Tricksters, too, but that's always fine. Things are never boring, at least!" 

Clay thinks back to being raised at home, where chaos was second nature and pranks and mischief were overwhelmingly common. "I can imagine."

He watches Sam check something in a furnace, and he catches sight of the skin at his temples— dark and wrinkled, Clay can distinguish the marks as old burn scars. The little bits he can see are gruesome even if they are long past healed, and the mask suddenly makes sense. 

Any thought of Sam being a potential witch is put out of his mind. 

"So what's your story?"

Sam turns to look at him. "Huh?"

"A redstone master out in the middle of the taiga?" Clay prompts. "There some kind of lead up to that?"

"Oh." Sam shakes his head. "Nah, not really. I just settled down here." 

"You aren't from here?"

"I'm from the south," he clarifies. "Way far south. Think, like— desert and savannah." 

Clay whistles. "And you settled down in a  _ taiga?" _

"There's a really rich redstone vein here." Sam taps one foot on the floor twice. "The villagers pull up a ton of it with their coal, so it seemed like a good place to set up shop, y'know? Easy access means I can mess around and learn more." 

"Amen to that." Clay nods to himself. "Speaking of easy access— Is there a library in this town?”

Sam tilts his head. "A library?"

"Yeah." 

Sam pulls out a few loaves of bread with a furnace stone, transferring them to a rack on the counter to cool. "Not a proper one, really. The church has a personal collection if you want to give that a shot?"

"Mm…" Clay considers for a moment. "Okay. Yeah, that should be okay. I'll see what they've got. Thanks."

"Not a problem. Mind if I ask why you need a library, though?" 

And for a fraction of a second, Clay pauses.

The world has scholars and knowledge-seekers and people who spend their lives drifting to find new information— and if that person just-so-happens to be a witch, they have to be careful. Clay had that drilled into him by his grandfather—  _ leave very little traces of you, clean up your trail _ . It's safer that way, less likely to be found.

A person's memory is faulty and unreliable, which is why witches use grimoires, but it's also why Clay burns stray parchment when he researches. He can tell someone where he's going, what he's doing— but he does his best to avoid leaving a physical trail if he can avoid it, even in a small village like this in the middle of an expansive taiga. 

"I'm just researching," Clay answers. "Looking for information, expanding the mental repertoire. Nothing super important."

If Sam noticed the half-beat of hesitation, he’s kind enough to not comment. "We've got some books here if you want to take a peek?"

"Any knowledge is good knowledge." Even if he doesn't have much faith in finding something useful, he may as well try. 

* * *

It's not much, really, just a few bookshelves stacked along a wall. 

The shelves are a mishmash of styles and genres, the result of buying from whatever merchants came through the area, and Clay doesn't see anything of note on his first pass. On his second pass, he pulls a book of foreign mythos from the far south detailing stories of the Wither. He also snags a redstone guidebook he finds stashed on the bottom shelf, which is hand-written with diagrams of redstone machinery and depictions of circuits. 

Tommy and Tubbo shuffle in at some point, ears and noses red and snow dusted in their hair and with matching, shit-eating grins. 

The two of them lead to immediate chaos— Clay stays in the sitting room to read and listens to the commotion in the kitchen. One of the teenagers speaks, Sam chimes in, and the volume increases. 

Patches comes streaking out of the kitchen and barrels onto the seat behind Clay, and he scratches her under her chin in an apology. She settles soon after, even if she still looks just a tad bit grumpy. 

Sam comes in to check the pot on the fireplace and Clay swiftly cleans up his journal and charcoal as Sam calls for dinner. 

A bowl of stew is pressed into his hands by Sam, who smiles at him warmly. 

"Thanks," Clay murmurs. 

"Not a problem," he reassures, then turns back to the teenagers. "Tommy, dude, stop trying to take Tubbo's bread—"

"He stole mine first!"

"Wh— I did  _ not _ , you ate yours already!" 

Clay hides his smile by draining some of the broth from his bowl, watching the teenagers squabble. 

His gaze flickers to the window— the sky is dark, but from what he can tell the snow is lightening up. As Sam playfully shoves Tommy to get him away from Tubbo, Clay thinks that are worse places to get stranded for a day. 

"The snowfall should be done by tomorrow." Clay says, drawing attention to him. 

"It'll probably be done snowing tonight," Tubbo agrees cheerfully. "It was really light when Tommy and I were getting firewood."

"That's good, that's good…" Clay hums. "I should be able to leave tomorrow, then." 

"You in some kind of a rush?" Tommy asks. 

"No, but—" 

...He didn't…  _ have _ to leave right away, but the idea of sitting still for too long makes his skin itch. 

"You were going to go check out the church's books tomorrow, right?" Sam asks— there's something in his voice that Clay keys into, a note of hesitation. "You can stay here another night if it's going to take a while." 

Clay chews on the inside of his cheek as he thinks, gaze flickering off to the side.

"...Yeah, sure." He nods slightly. "If it's not a hassle." 

Sam perks up slightly. "Not at all! It's always good to have guests." 

"Sam just likes being a host." Tubbo grins and ducks away as Sam swats playfully at his head. 

"Let the suspicious man stay another day, what a good idea." Tommy's voice oozes with sarcasm, but he doesn't sound particularly opposed. 

"Hush up!" Tubbo sends a piece of bread flying at Tommy, who dodges out of the way, and Clay snorts. 

"The 'suspicious man' will be out of your hair whenever you want him to be, then." He taps his thumb against the outside of the bowl. "But… thank you." 

The hospitality is certainly welcome, at least. He scoops some meat out of his stew and leans back, offering it to Patches. She snaps up the piece and purrs, bumping her head against his back. 

...Yeah. Not so bad of a place to get stranded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta for this chapter either!  
> whooo! this chapter is actually a lil longer than the others, but it was a blast to write! i really liked writing the characters that showed up in this story: tommy, tubbo, and sam are all fun and have a dynamic that i like. chaotic but respectful, lmaooo
> 
> the next few chapters are going to come out slower than these have! ive got finals for the next two weeks (ishly), so i'll be attempting to focus on doing those.   
> as always, please comment! see ya next chapter! :]


	6. growing restless.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I get lost.” That was a good descriptor. “When I get really invested in something, I’ll just keep chasing after it until someone snaps me out of it or I burn myself out, or whatever.” He shrugs, stepping away from the bookshelves. “I can spend hours just sitting on the floor reading when I’m looking for things.”_
> 
> Looking and moving on.

When Sam said that the church had a personal collection, Clay thinks he may have been a bit too optimistic. 

Tubbo had escorted him down the winding path to the village once the sun was above the horizon. The kid was kind enough to speak on his behalf, convincing the church’s primary residents that Clay is a welcomed guest. When the villager eyed Clay with some mild disdain, Tubbo had casually mentioned that Sam could vouch for him. Sam’s name has some sway, apparently, because the villager almost immediately opened the door for Clay to come in. 

And now, three hours later, Clay is sitting on the floor of the church with half of the church’s meager collection scattered around him. A lot of the books are standard education— meant for the children of the village, likely. He wonders if the town professions are passed through family, if the workbooks he found are all the standard education offered. He picks up another book, skimming the first few pages before discarding it. If he could find some mythos, that might make this excursion worthwhile. As he gazes at the meager collection of books the church has to offer, the idea of finding anything even particularly  _ interesting _ feels like a bit of a hopeless endeavor.

He can feel eyes burning into the back of his skull as he works, but every time he looks there is the sound of someone scurrying down the hall, and he just sighs. 

Strangers not being welcome doesn’t surprise him in this small of a village, but it doesn’t stop the unease from being annoying. Part of him worries that his heritage is obvious, even if he can’t think of why it would be. 

He tries to brush aside the paranoia and stands up, grunting softly as his muscles complain. His bag is packed up again, his grimoire and research journal carefully packed away again before he leaves the church. He’ll come back after a break, he thinks. 

The town itself is small— a decently sized community for how deep it is in the taiga, but nowhere near the size of home. The paths are rough underfoot, more packed dirt than cobble or gravel, and Clay follows them deeper into the village. 

There’s more foot traffic than he would expect with the weather, but he doesn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone. Most people keep their distance, eyeing him as he walks through the streets. 

He slows as he approaches the opposite end of town, watching the path begin to fade somewhat as he moves further from the heart of town. 

Clay’s fingers close around his compass and he taps his thumb against the edge as he reviews his direction. He slowly turns his body to be facing west again, and he draws his gaze back towards what he can see of the horizon.

He ignores the desire to just  _ go _ , and turns back to the village. He forces himself to go back to the church, slipping inside and dropping to sit on the floor again. He pulls more books from the shelves, this time at random, and starts flipping through pages. 

He spends most of the afternoon sitting there— alternating between reading books, pacing the length of the church, and rereading his journal. His fingers itch to pull out his grimoire and cast a spell, but he tamps down the feeling and forces himself to focus. The piles of books just continue to grow with his mounting frustration, and he bites hard on his tongue to keep himself from yelling in irritation. 

“Oh, jeez.” 

Tubbo’s voice comes from right next to him and Clay looks up from a book of fairytales he’d been flipping through as a way to destress. Tubbo is staring openly at the piles of books. 

“Did you read all of those?” he asks. 

Clay looks at the stack. “...Yeah.”

“How?”

Clay chuckles and tosses the fairytale book back on the pile. “What d’ya mean, ‘how’?”

“I mean— how? That’s so many books, Dream.” 

“I’ve gone through more in less,” he responds, moving to stand up.

Tubbo’s eyes are wide. “Surely not.” 

“Nope, I have.” Dream nods slightly, scooping up some of the books and returning them to their shelves.

“How?” Tubbo trails after him. 

“Whatd’ya mean, ‘how’?” He casts an odd look towards Tubbo. 

“Oh, well—” He gestures vaguely with his hands. “I have a hard time reading, you know? The letters all bounce around.” 

Dream pauses as he slots the last book back into its place, gently tapping his nails against the spine. He says carefully, “I just get… lost, sort of?”

Tubbo tilts his head. “Huh?”

“I get lost.” That was a good descriptor. “When I get really invested in something, I’ll just keep chasing after it until someone snaps me out of it or I burn myself out, or whatever.” He shrugs, stepping away from the bookshelves. “I can spend hours just sitting on the floor reading when I’m looking for things.” 

“Huh. You’re like Sam, when he gets working.” Tubbo sounds amused. “Except he doesn’t do that with books, he does it with redstone.” 

“People have their passions.” Dream scoops up his bag and returns it to his shoulder. “Did you come to pick me up or something?” 

“Yeah!” Tubbo grins, rocking on his toes. “Figured I could extend an act of charity or— whatever. Giving the stranger an escort, and whatnot.” 

“Lead the way then, ‘Bo.” 

As the two of them pass through the town, Clay is once again aware of eyes burning into his skull. 

“You guys don’t get visitors much,” he observes. 

“Nope, not really.” Tubbo hops across the cobbles, feet tapping down in a pattern as he goes. “We get merchants and things sometimes, but we’re pretty small and self-sufficient. We’ve got farmers and butchers and blacksmiths--” 

“--And redstone workers and warriors,” Clay finishes. 

Tubbo snickers. “I wouldn’t say warriors.” 

“Tommy doesn’t know how to fight?”

“Tommy’s just a kid!”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t be in training for something like that.” Clay grins. “Plus, he shoved a sword in my face yesterday.” 

“...Okay, yeah, that’s a good point.” Tubbo shrugs. “Tommy  _ sort of _ knows how to fight? He gets into fights a lot. He gets his ass kicked a lot too.” 

Dream snickers. “That does not surprise me, honestly.” 

“He’s not that bad, he just picks dumb fights.”

The hill begins to incline, and Dream looks up towards the top, where Sam’s house is nestled. 

“Did someone teach him to fight?” He asks. 

"Dunno. I don't think so." Tubbo shrugs slightly. "I think he just got some experience over time, I guess."

Dream hums quietly, sticking his hands in his pockets as he lapses into silence. Tommy having a temper and picking fights seems… in-character, from what he’s seen so far of the kid, but he chooses to keep that comment to himself.

Tubbo slows a bit as the two of them approach the top of the hill, his feet dragging a little bit as they get in the eyeshot of the lodge.

"Oi, Big Man!" 

Clay steps back in surprise as a snowball exploded across his chest, sending the white flurry of snow  _ everywhere _ . Tommy's cackle fills the air and Clay squints at him, fighting back a grin and failing. 

"Oh-hoh, you little—" He ducks to dodge another snowball, scooping up some of the snow on the ground before whipping it at Tommy. 

Tommy shrieks and wheels about, leaping out of the way. Clay goes to scoop up more snow as another snowball smacks him in the side of the head. Snow manages to get beneath his mask, pressing cold against his cheek, and he turns slowly to see Tubbo whistling innocently and looking the other way. 

Clay looks at the snowball in his hand, to where Tommy is scooping up more snow, and at Tubbo. 

He lunges at Tubbo and the teenager yells, scrambling backwards— fast, but not fast enough to avoid Clay grabbing him and shoving snow down his collar. 

He yells in protest at the cold, flailing and bouncing around to get rid of the snow as Clay lets him go. Clay doubles over, wheezing at the sight at the same time that Tommy shouts, "Tubbo!" 

It takes no time for the three of them to dissolve into a war— the teenagers against Clay, throwing snowballs and shouting and laughing all the while. Tubbo betrays Tommy at some point, dumping snow down the back of his shirt, and Clay has to hold himself up against a tree as he wheezes and tries to breathe.

When the three of them stumble back into the house, Sam pokes his head out from the kitchen. 

"You three sounded like you were having fun," he greets. 

"Dream's a dirty cheater." Tommy shakes snow from his hair like a dog and throws Clay a dirty look. 

Clay elbows him. "Oh,  _ I'm _ the cheater? What about your friend that shoved snow down your shirt, huh?"

"To be fair, I got the idea from you," Tubbo points out. 

Dream snorts. "That doesn't mean I  _ cheated _ ." 

"Two against one! You cheated."

"How is that two against one?!"

Sam snickers from where he leans in the doorway, arms folded as the three bicker. "I'm making hot chocolate if you guys want to go hang out in the living room? And not track snow through the house, maybe." 

"Yeah, yeah." Tommy rolls his eyes good-naturedly and stomps towards the living room.

Tubbo snorts and trails after him with a call of, "thanks Sam!" 

Clay rubs his hands together to try and get some warmth back into his fingers. "Mind if I lend a hand?"

Sam teases, "You some kind of hot chocolate magician?" 

"Maybe." Dream wipes his boots off. "I've made a batch or two."

A small shrug. "Feel free to come with."

Clay trails after Sam, hovering curiously behind him and peering at the bubbling pot that Sam stirs absentmindedly. He sniffs the air out of habit, head tilted to the side just slightly as he considers what was probably added, and he gently nudges Sam under the ribs.

“D’you have cinnamon?” 

Sam blinks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Cinnamon? Uh… yeah, we should…” 

He steps away from the pot, rifling through a cabinet for a moment before offering a shaker towards Dream. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Just trust me.” Dream takes the cinnamon and adds a few shakes to the hot chocolate, feeling the component warm beneath his fingers. It’s just like making a warming potion, he muses. Not as potent, but it would do its job. 

He steps out of the way to let Sam pour the drink into mugs and he helps carry them to the living room, where the two teenagers are sprawled out on the couch and comfortably invading each other’s space. Sam passes the mugs to Tommy and Tubbo and Dream silently hands him one of the mugs in his hands, which he takes with a soft, “thanks.” 

Sam drops to sit in a chair, but Dream leans against the doorway and brings his mug to his mouth as he watches the other three. 

Tommy seems to down half of his mug in a single gulp while Tubbo simply sips from his, but it has the desired effect. Dream watches Sam and the teenagers relax some as the component takes effect, and he takes a proper drink from his own mug. 

Warmth spreads through him in a gentle wave, the cinnamon doing its job in warding away the chill and supplying a feeling of comfortable warmth pulsing in his core. It would probably last the hour, he thinks. 

“Hey, Sam.” 

“Yeah?” 

Clay sets his mug down before retrieving his map from his bag, unfurling the edges on the table. Sam leans forward to peer at the parchment, and Dream can see Tommy peering nosily from where he’s sitting. 

“We’re about… here, right?” Dream taps his finger against the spot he was pretty sure he was. 

Sam taps on the map just northwest of where Dream was pointing. “We’re about here. These are the woods, this is the town.”

Dream hums softly, tapping against the table. “Okay. Okay, cool. And the nearest big city is… Manberg, right? Over here.” He taps on another part of the map, further north than he’d like but still west. 

“Yeah, thereabouts.” Sam frowns. “Where’d you get this map, by the way? It’s got, like… a crazy amount of detail.”

“Bought a lot from merchants and cobbled them together, honestly.” He glances on the east of the map. “It’s not super great about biomes, though, so I’ve kinda been filling them in where I can.” 

“Well—” Sam scoots forward and drags his fingers along a point on the map further south-west. “There’s a birch forest here, and a desert down here. The taiga thins out to an oak forest about… here-ish?” He taps on a point between their current location and Manberg. “That’s about all I know.”

Dream reaches for his bag and pulls out some charcoal, reaching over the map again to fill in that information. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he processes.. “Okay, that’s— helpful, actually. It should be a little warmer once I hit the oak forest.”

“Probably not by much, honestly. Late autumn is pretty brutal here. The snowfall is probably going to get worse in the next couple of weeks, especially if you’re still in the taiga.”

He sighs in frustration, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah… I’m probably gonna be double-timing it if I want to avoid that, huh…” 

“What are you gonna do, run the whole way?” Tommy snorts. 

“I’ve got my ways.” Dream stares down at the map for a few more moments before he makes a marker for the village and Sam’s lodge. “It’s gonna suck, but I can probably get to Manberg alright.”

A soft chirp draws his attention and he looks down to see Patches watching him impatiently. Dream slants his shoulders towards her and she leaps onto his shoulders with a soft  _ mrrrp _ , kneading her claws into the fabric at his shoulder as she settles.

“Smart cat,” Tubbo murmurs.

“Yeah, she’s pretty clever.” Dream rolls up the map and moves to tuck it back into his belongings. He looks back at the other three. “I’m gonna head out tomorrow.” 

“Ah— are you?” 

“Yeah, I wanna get to Manberg and see if they’ve got a library for me to pillage.” 

Sam laughs good-naturedly. “Our library not good enough for you?” 

“He went through most of the books already,” Tubbo chimes in. 

“What?” Tommy stares at Dream. “Fuckin’ nerd.” 

“I’m just a quick reader.” He reaches for his mug and drains what’s left, feeling the warmth at his core pulse slightly before intensifying just enough. “But yeah, I went through most of the books. Didn’t find anything I didn’t already know.”

“What are you even researching, anyways?” 

Dream pauses. “Mythology,” he answers. 

That’s the safer answer, at least.

“Boring.” Tommy flops backwards. “Mythology is boring. My bitchass brother likes that shit.” 

Dream looks at Tubbo. 

“He and I aren’t related,” Tubbo says. “Mythos is… eh, I guess. I’m cool with just learning about redstone for now, y’know?” 

Dream hums softly. “Yeah, that’s fair enough.” He scritches Patches under her chin and looks out the window, reclining in his chair as he considers when he’ll want to leave.

Patches nudges her head into his hand, and Dream closes his eyes to listen to the sounds of the room as Tubbo and Tommy switch topics, letting their voices lull into background noise. 

* * *

“It was nice having you here.” 

Dream looks up from where he’s lacing up his boots, blinking up at Sam as he hovers near the front door. 

“I’m glad I wasn’t imposing too much.” Dream tucks the loops of his laces into his boots and readjusts slightly, opening the top of his bag for Patches to crawl into. “Thanks for selling me some of that redstone, by the way.” 

“You gave me an emerald for it, dude, it’s no problem. Just don’t go making a bomb or something with it, yeah?” 

“Don’t plan on it.” Dream closes his bag and stands up, stretching his shoulders. “But uh… seriously, thanks for letting me stay. It was nice.” 

Sam brightens somewhat, a grin on his face. “Yeah, ‘course! Tommy and Tubbo seemed to have fun while you were here, and I like being a host, so…” He trails off. “Yeah. Feel free to visit again if you’re ever in the area.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Sam pushes the door open and holds it for Dream as he steps through, readjusting. He takes his axe off of his back as a precaution, checking his compass for the direction he needs to go. 

“Well…” He trails off a little. He isn’t really used to farewells— he’s more used to leaving notes and going on ahead, after all. “Thanks again.”

“No problem. Be safe, Dream.” 

Dream gives a slight nod of his head and beelines for the forest.

* * *

.

.

.

The woods are dark and the woods are silent as a figure walks through them, silent with the exception of fabric swishing at his heels. There is a clearing up ahead, the flashing of a blade, and the figure stops. 

He watches the blond teenager swing a blade in practiced forms. 

A gruff voice calls out, “You’re rusty.”

Tommy whirls around, almost dropping the sword in his surprise before he clutches it to his chest. He stares for a moment before breathing out slowly and scowling. 

“Hey, dickhead, give a guy some heads up, won’t ya?” 

“What’s the fun in that?"

“Ohh, I should really clobber you.” Tommy shoots him a dark look and starts walking towards the door, wrenching it open and holding it. “You coming in, then?” 

“Figured I would for a little.”

Tommy makes a face, rolling his eyes before he stalks inside with a shadow close at his heels. 

He crosses the threshold and stalls for a moment, gaze sweeping across the room as his nose flares beneath a mask. It’s not much, but he recognizes the thrum in the air, regardless of how faint it is and how quickly it dissipates. A hand shoots out to grab onto Tommy’s elbow, stopping the teenager in his tracks. 

“Hey, what’s the big—” Tommy trails off at the shift in his demeanor. “—idea…” 

“Who was here.” It’s not a question. 

“Huh?” 

  
  
The grip tightens. “Who was in this house?” 

Tommy blinks and yanks his arm away, scowling as he rubs his elbow. “Some rando? He stayed here for a couple of days, I dunno. Said his name was Dream.” 

He takes in a long, deep breath. “And?” 

“I dunno, man! He came ‘round, stayed a few nights, read some books, and left. You just missed him.” 

“Read some books?”

“I don’t know!” Tommy throws his hands in the air, and Tubbo peeks around the corner curiously. “Dude was weird, okay! Said he was studying mythology, I guess, and he moved on.” 

_ Mythology. Rumours. Magic. _

“Did he have a mask?” His tone sharpens. 

“Uh…” Tommy throws a glance back at Tubbo, and the two exchange a look.    
  
His hands flex under a heavy cloak. 

“Tommy Innit,” he breathes, an ominous note to his voice, “did you let a witch into this house?” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Oh,” Tommy breathes. 

“Yeah,” Technoblade says. “ _ Oh _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by @Volarfinch //
> 
> eeeeyy, finals are over so i can update again!!  
> For those of you who were looking forward to Techno Content(tm), I hope that little end teaser is a good beginning lmaooo  
> as always, comments do wonders for my writing! :]  
> thank you for reading, y'all! see you next chapter <3


	7. thought itself human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dream touches his mask delicately and thinks of his grandfather. He thinks about the stories his grandfather told him from when he was young— of getting mixed up with witchunters and outsmarting them, of chasing magic across an entire continent and getting into trouble because of that thirst for knowledge._
> 
> Dream is in Manberg, and we have a pause for the travelling!

Sam was right about the weather. 

Dream had managed to shave a fourteen-and-a-half day journey into just under nine, but the trip has been a brutal one.

Patches peeks up from her perch in Dream's bag as he peers at the map in his hands, marking his location. He'll be in Manburg before noon the next day, he thinks— at least, if he's where he thinks he is, he will be. The idea of sleeping in an inn— in a  _ bed _ — sounds heavenly after the break-neck pace he's been pushing himself at these past few days. 

He looks into the dark of the woods and reaches forward with his hands, gently pushing the flames down to smouldering embers. Patches creeps from the bag, allowing Dream to adjust it and use it as a pillow before she snuggles under his cloak and curls up between his arm and ribcage. 

Dream holds her securely, makes sure his axe is within arms reach, and stares up at the branches overhead. 

The weather is cold, and the fire only does so much to keep Dream warm, even with his bedroll. 

It could be worse, he tries to reason. A taiga is better than a tundra, and he was making remarkably good time. Of course, spending even more time in the air and using coffee beans as boosts every six hours was… tiring, but it meant less time in the cold. 

He's been straying away from the satellite villages he passes— he's passed a handful of villages even smaller than Sam's home as he travelled, and simply kept out of the way. He had been under Sam's protection those few days he stayed with him— he had no such protection in farming hubs or miniscule homesteads, and so he kept away. He couldn't sense magic from those places, Dream had reasoned to himself. There was no reason to risk getting speared by a stranger. 

He scratches Patches across her shoulders, feeling her purr beginning to rumble against his ribcage. 

Dream touches his mask delicately and thinks of his grandfather. He thinks about the stories his grandfather told him from when he was young— of getting mixed up with witchunters and outsmarting them, of chasing magic across an entire continent and getting into trouble because of that thirst for knowledge.

A cold breeze washed across him and Dream digs into his pocket. He produces a vial of pepper flakes, clumsily uncorking it with one hand before tipping a pinch of the component into his mouth. 

He caps the vial as warmth begins to bloom in his chest, slowly spreading from his core to his extremities, and he closes his eyes and tries to make himself comfortable. He'll need to get at least  _ some  _ sleep— at the very least just to put his mind at rest.

* * *

Manberg is bustling. 

Dream thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, but the further he gets into the city the more heavily he’s reminded of why he lives at the edge of his own town. The crowds are packed in open lanes of the streets, peoples’ paths criss-crossing over one another as every person tries to get to their own destination. It’s like a particularly busy day in the market, but with four times as many people and constantly. 

Voices shout over each other, wagons rumble by with the sounds of wheels against the stones beneath their feet, and there are flashes of colours of all kinds as people go back and forth. 

It’s rambunctious and overwhelming— but no one gives Dream a second look. It’s easier to hide in a city than it is to hide in a village. 

He weaves through crowds, catching snippets of conversation as he goes. Bartering, gossiping, the likes. His feet carry him towards the center of town. There are shops on all sides, market stalls set up in a layered semicircle as merchants shout and advertise and patrons flock to spend their coin purses. 

Dream checks his bag; Patches is comfortably lounging as she watches the citylife. He gently pats the top of her head and she purrs steadily under the attention until Dream returns his attention to the streets. He picks his way across the town’s epicentre, weaving through the throngs of people as he goes until he finds himself at a corner cafe, with a downright tantalizing smell wafting from the open doors. 

His stomach growls softly in approval and Dream caves near immediately, stepping inside.

It’s a cute place, he thinks. Bookshelves are stacked along the lower halves of the walls, flowers and other plants all but bursting from their pots as they flourished. A chalkboard displays items and pricing, and a glass display shows off the treats being sold. Patrons linger around the premise, a few standing in wait, and Dream falls into step behind them. 

Patches gives a small  _ ‘mrrp?’ _ From her perch, and Dream scratches behind her ears to keep her occupied as he looks towards the menu. 

He hears quiet giggling and the sounds of shushing, and throws a look out of the corner of his eye towards the source. A handful of girls are gathered at a table, heads bent together as they spoke among each other, and a few of them look obviously in his direction. 

His hands itch to adjust his mask, but he keeps them by his side and redirects his attention towards the board again. 

“Sir?” 

... Oh, he’s at the front of the line. Dream blinks as he comes back to himself, finding himself staring at a girl half a head shorter than him, who looks like she’s been waiting patiently. 

“Oh. Sorry, uh—” 

“It’s alright.” She smiles warmly. “What can I get for you, sir?” 

“Shit, uh—” Literally everything looks good, he hadn’t managed to make up his mind. His gaze drops to the glass case presenting treats and gently taps his knuckles against it. “Cake? Yeah. Cake. And, uh, coffee.”

“Mm…” She scribbles down the order on a notepad before tilting her head up to look at him with a smile so bright he feels the need to squint. “Cake and coffee, got it!”

He pays her without a thought and makes his way over to a table near the bookshelves, sinking into the seat and hauling his bag onto his lap. Patches leaps up onto the table, pacing in a circle before sitting down and washing her ears. 

Dream gently flicks her. “Have some public decency, Patches.” 

Her tail swishes twice before curling around her paws, and she looks pointedly away from him. 

Dream rolls his eyes and turns in his seat, leaning over to peer at the books in the bookshelves. Most of them are children’s books of some flavour, fairytales and bedtime stories told to kids, but there’s a mix of history slotted among the mix. 

He lets his gaze skim lazily over the spines of the books before his gaze stalls on a familiar decorum. 

The book is in his hands before he can really think, thumb brushing along the pages of the storybook as he cradles it gently. This is a newer copy, he thinks, but the story is unmistakable. His childhood tale of the End stares back at him, the author's words illustrated with newer and simpler designs, but the story is the same. 

He flips through the pages, taking in the swirls of purples, pinks, greens and golds that decorate the page. Nostalgia sits warm in his chest and his mouth curls up into a smile with every turn of the pages. 

The soft clink of ceramic pulls him from his indulgence, and he looks up to see the girl from earlier standing to his side, setting down plates. 

She slides a saucer of milk towards Patches and Dream raises his eyebrows as he closes the book and sets it aside. 

“I didn’t, uh…” 

“I know,” she reassures, and smiles. “It’s on the house.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course!” The girl beams and rests a knee in the seat opposite of Dream, delicately holding out her hand towards the feline in encouragement. “I love cats. What’s her name?” 

“Patches.” Dream watches as Patches sniffs at her hand and bumps her head into it, purring. “She’s sort of bossy.” 

“She’s a  _ sweetheart _ ,” the girl cooes. “An absolute angel.” 

Dream has a list of offenses that says otherwise, but he keeps that to himself. “Yeah, I’ve had her for a while.” 

“Oh? How long?” 

Dream thinks for a moment, running his thumb along the ceramic of his coffee mug. He’d been given Patches shortly after he’d been given the mask, and she was a kitten then. 

“About five years.” 

“Oh, so she’s still young then!” The girl continues to all but smother Patches in affection and Dream tilts his head to catch a glimpse at her nametag. 

Written in neat, simple print is the name.  _ Niki _ . 

“Guess so, yeah. Still acts like a kitten, though.” Patches bats gently at Niki’s hand before pulling away and ducking her head to lap at the saucer of milk she was presented. 

Niki giggles and slides into the seat opposite of Dream, beaming warmly at him. “You’re new here?” 

Dream can’t help but quirk an eyebrow, even if it can’t be seen. He pulls the plate with his cake closer, twirling the fork between his fingers. “What makes you say that?” 

“Oh, well— I just know most people on this side of town, is all. You’re a new face.” 

Dream snorts at the joke and watches Niki’s smile widen. He gestures vaguely with his fork. “Got here today. Wanted to visit.” 

Not untrue, at least. He had wanted to stop by Manberg when he realized that it was sort of on the right axis, but it was less because of Menberg and more just because it was a large city. The larger the city, the more shops, the larger the libraries available.

“It’s a nice place to visit!” Niki chirps, drumming her hands gently on the table. “I mean, I’m sort of biased since I live here, but it’s nice! A good place to be. Are you visiting family, or…?” 

“Just visiting.” He offers a smile, and then switches topics. “Do these books belong to the store?” 

“Well, uh… technically! They’re all mine, but I own the store too, so— by extension, kind of!” Niki lets her gaze flicker over towards the bookshelves.

Dream pauses. “Wait. You own the store?” 

“Mhm!” Niki beams. 

“Holy—” Dream gives a small whistle of appreciation. “Jesus. You’re like… my age.” 

“I’m nineteen.”    
  
“Fuck.” She was younger than him, and already has a successful business. “Good on you. Why d’you have a bunch of fairy tales and stuff here?” 

“Oh, well—” Niki shrugs. “A lot of kids come by? Or- well, a lot of parents bring their kids with them when they come by, you know? So it’s good for, ah… entertaining yourself and passing the time. 

“And the history?” 

“I like history.” 

“Fair enough.” 

Dream sets his now-empty plate aside and drinks some more of his coffee. Patches has sprawled out across the vacant part of the table, head tilted towards Niki so the girl could scratch behind her ears. 

Niki nods at the book settled next to him. “Do you like fairy tales?” 

“Uh… Sort of.” He rests his hand on the book, rubbing his thumb along the spine. “I like this one in particular.” 

“It’s a cute little story.” Niki nods, reaching for the book and opening it up. “I found it in the market at one point and the illustrations were really sweet… so it seemed nice to buy.” 

Dream hums softly, and reaches to put the book back. 

“D’you normally just get books from the market around here?” 

“Sometimes.” Niki moves to stand up, scratching Patches behind the ear as she takes the two empty dishes. “My friend owns a bookstore, though. It’s where I got a lot of the fairytales.”

Dream pauses and perks up a little bit. “A bookstore?” 

“Mhm! His name’s Eret, his store is a few blocks away.” She adds his cup to her stack of dishes and smiles gently. “It’s a bit easy to miss, but you’ll know it when you step inside.” 

“Thanks.” Dream scoops up Patches under the belly, ignoring her cry of disapproval as he deposits her on his shoulders. Patches huffs, nipping at the tip of his ear before moving to settle in her usual perch. “And, uh. Thanks for the cake ‘n stuff.” 

“Of course!” Niki beams. “I mean, you paid for it, after all. Now shoo! Go give my friend some business.” 

Dream snorts. “Just shoving a tourist from one clerk to the next, huh?” 

Niki’s beam turns to a grin, her eyes glinting. “Perhaps. Have a nice day!” 

“Yeah, alright.” He gives a small two-fingered salute before he moves back out to the streets, mentally making note of where he is. Centre of town wasn’t very difficult to find, and Niki wasn’t too far away from that bustling shop. 

...Niki didn’t say what direction this ‘Eret’ was located, and Dream has a few other priorities that reside over finding a single bookstore. He scratches Patches under the jaw again, gently running his knuckles across her fur, and her tail flicks against his collar in response. 

He fishes out his compass, eyeing the needle as it wavers beneath the face. He stows it away again, watches the flow of the crowds for a long moment. Then he picks a direction, and he walks. 

* * *

By the time he’d managed to find the shop, the world had gone fuzzy with warm late-afternoon sun, long shadows cast across the world. 

Dream pushes the door open and is greeted by the chime of a bell overhead and the sight of closely packed bookshelves. The shop is relatively dark, lit by lanterns set into the walls, and the smell of must and parchment is almost overwhelming. 

A voice calls, “Be there in a second.” 

“Take your time,” Dream calls back. 

He steps further into the store, looking around curiously. The front counter is piled high with stacks of books and papers that make the space behind the counter look like a cave, almost. The bookshelves feel like they occupy more space than the room has to offer, and Dream has a moment where he genuinely finds himself looking for signs of an enchantment to the room. 

There isn’t any magic in the air, not that he can tell, but the library still feels separate from the rest of the raucous city outside. 

He steps into an aisle at random and pulls a book from the shelf. History from the north stares back at him, and he skims some of the words absentmindedly as he goes. Nothing particularly important, he doesn’t think, so he places it back. 

He finds a book about the Wither next and leans against the bookshelf, bracing an arm above his head as he flips absentmindedly through the book. The story is given a hero this time, instead of the involved figures being nameless individuals. It was a nice enough change, he thinks. He wonders if any other stories have similar changes.

“Can I help you?”

When Dream turns to greet the person who spoke, he finds himself greeted by glinting sunglasses. His stomach lurches at the sudden appearance of the other, but he takes his arm off of the shelf and closes the book in his hand. 

“Just looking around,” Dream answers.

The man hums softly. “I suppose that’s fair enough. Looking for anything in particular?” 

“Fairy tales and mythology.” Dream slides the Wither book back where he found it. “Anything along those lines, I guess.” 

“That’s about half of this store.” Amusement creeps into the other’s voice. “So you aren’t narrowing your options by much.” 

“I think narrowing my options by half is a lot, actually,” Dream shoots back. 

He gets a laugh and a shake of the head. “Anything more specific you can tell me? Or are you going to loiter until I close?” 

“Just wanted to figure out where the store was, mainly.” Dream leans against one of the bookshelves, feeling Patches rustle where she curled up inside his bag. “Niki gave some pretty vague instructions.” 

“Ah— a friend of Niki’s, then?” The man peers at him. “... You’re… odd.” 

“Pfft.  _ ‘Friend’ _ would be  _ way _ overstating it. Customer works better. She sent me this way to give you some business.” Dream gently knocks his knuckles against the shelves. “I’ll try and buy if I find anything that interests me.” 

The man hums. “Please do.”

Dream pauses. “You’re… Eret, right?” 

Laughter greets him. “That’s most certainly my name, yes.” 

“Okay. Cool. Just, uh— making sure. Forgot to ask.” 

“Hell of a way to do it. Take your time, but I’m kicking you out when I close up.” 

“Yeah, yeah, alright.”

Dream turns back to the shelves, ready to lose himself in the papers until he’s forcibly removed from the store. 

It’s about forty-five minutes later when something clicks and he leans out of the aisle he’d been standing in. 

“Hey, Eret?” 

“What’s up?” 

Eret essentially appears out of nowhere, all but startling Dream out of his skin as he flinches away. Eret gives what Dream only assumes is an apologetic look. “Sorry.” 

“No problem—  _ Lords _ , you move quietly— but, uh… Library. There’s a big library around here. Yeah?” 

“Er… Yeah, there is. It’s on, like… the other side of town, though.” 

Dream shoves his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting. “Is it? Okay, uh… cool. Cool, that’s good to know.” 

“A bit of a bibliophile, huh?” 

Dream scrunches up his nose behind his mask. “Don’t call me that.” 

Eret hums pleasantly. “Sure. Why are you asking?” 

“Curious, is all.” Not entirely true, but not  _ untrue _ either. Being in one place over multiple days, especially in a city as large as Manberg, makes his skin crawl unpleasantly. “I’ll probably give there a visit sometime.” 

Eret hums. “Good luck with that, then.” 

Dream gives a thumbs-up and Eret vanishes from sight again.

* * *

“Patches, I am so glad I don’t live in a city.” 

Dream crashes onto the mattress in the inn, sinking into the sheets and letting out an explosive sigh as he does so. He rolls over onto his side to see Patches as she leaps up to join him, purring and kneading the blankets in her paws as she does so. 

He had indeed stayed at Eret’s store until the shopkeep himself essentially kicked him out, halfway shoving him back onto the streets with a scolding, “Come back when we’re open again, idiot.” 

It hadn’t taken long for him to find an inn he was willing to sleep in, though, which was a blessing. Out of the way but not totally seedy, generally pretty inconspicuous, and  _ cheap _ . Gives him somewhere good to stay while he hangs around Manburg for research, and somewhere he doubts someone would come looking for him. 

He rolls onto his back, resting a hand on his collar as he stares up at the ceiling. 

Large cities aren’t typically meant for witches. It wasn’t that he was worried about the reactions of the locals— but information spreads. Open knowledge of a witch being around— especially a tourist, one not familiar with the layout of the city— was  _ dangerous _ . The detour was for the library, because the larger the city, the larger the libraries. 

The larger the city, the larger the chance of meeting a witchhunter, which is the last thing he wants right now.

He thinks his paranoia is pretty warranted.

He breathes slowly through his nose, pushing his mask up enough to pinch the bridge of his nose and drag his hand down his face. 

Part of him wonders how George and Sapnap are doing. 

“They’re both gonna kill me when we get home, Patches.” Dream turns his head to look towards Patches, who sprawled out across the blankets with her paws continuing to knead the blankets. “You think either of them will look after my plants?” 

Patches pauses her kneading and rolls onto her back, tilting her head to look at Dream. She meows. 

“Yeah, probably not. I’m gonna get home to a bunch of dead plants.” He snickers. “At least it’s, like… cold. We’ll be back before spring and can fix everything up for it all to grow in the warmer months.” 

Patches purrs her agreement. 

“Want to come with me to the library tomorrow?”

Patches’ purring continues, and she reaches to press her paw to Dream’s cheek. 

Dream snorts and smooths his hand across her fur. “Yeah, alright. I doubt I really have a choice anyways.” 

She purrs, and Dream relaxes into the mattress as he rolls over and looks towards the ceiling. He has a plan to navigate the city and handle his research, and a place to stay at night. It’s at least a good base of operations. 

He closes his eyes, pulling his mask more comfortably onto his face, and drifts away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by @VolarFinch/ 
> 
> whooo! i've been having a good time writing now that finals are over haha  
> anyways! merry christmas, and a happy holidays to those that don't celebrate! i hope this is an alright gift from me to you, haha  
> we have some more characters that should be introduced soon, i can't wait to see how you all feel about everything! :]
> 
> thank you for reading!! as always, i'll see you next chapter! <3


	8. so little of reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The inn doesn’t offer meals as late as it is, so that’s how Dream finds himself wandering the streets at night. The air is cool enough that his breath steams and dissipates into the air, and Dream keeps an eye out for lights and an ear out for sound._
> 
> In which Eret is helpful and Dream keeps meeting new people.

“Welcome back.” 

Dream raises a hand as he walks into the store, finding Eret organizing the literal cave that is the front desk of his store. 

“You doing some spring cleaning or something?” 

“Something like that.” Eret takes a book off of a stack, opens the front cover, and places it on another stack. “It’s closer to, like... taking inventory, I guess. Seeing what sells and what I can probably donate because it won’t sell.” 

“Damn.” Dream picks up the book Eret just set down, looking over the cover. _Ode to L’Manberg._ “What’s this?” 

“Some kind of founding tale or something? It’s all over the place in terms of plot. Historical fiction— you know how it is.” 

Dream sets the book back down with an amused smile. “I don’t, actually.” 

“Not a fan of historical fiction?” 

“I told you, I like mythology.” 

“They’re pretty much the same thing.” 

There’s a note in Eret’s voice that hints that he’s kidding, so Dream brushes it off with a laugh and goes back towards the shelves he’s been combing through every time he’s walked into the store.

He hears Eret say, “And back he goes,” as Dream slots himself into the shelves, picking up a tale of the Nether off of the shelf and beginning to flip through it. He doesn’t respond to the comment, letting it hang and fizzle out in the air. Eret doesn’t say anything more for a while and Dream is content to let the silence take its place. 

He’d almost immediately made his presence regularly known in the shop— alternating between the store and the city’s library in order to do research. Continually going to one place over and over sets his nerves on edge, and so he makes a point to switch between places— leaving a harder trail to track by being as sporadic as he can afford. His only real constant is his visits to Niki’s cafe for a meal.

Eret was willing to deal with him, though, even if he complained about Dream not buying anything the first couple of visits. The two of them mostly kept out of each other’s way, and Dream tried to look like he wasn’t blatantly loitering when other customers came into the store. 

After about an hour and a half of Dream reading, Eret swings around the corner. “You know, you can just tell me what you’re looking for.” 

Dream tries to not startle, turning his head to look at Eret. “You need to wear a bell or something to stop coming out of nowhere.” 

Eret pushes his sunglasses up. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” He smiles and continues, “Seriously, though. What are you looking for?” 

“I’m just looking.” 

“I’m going to call bullshit.” Eret leans casually against one of the bookshelves, folding their arms as they do. “You read the same kinds of books. You pick through fairy tales. Niki said you’re really fond of the books she bought from me.”

Dream presses his tongue to the back of his teeth to keep himself from making a face. He says carefully, “Jus’ like these kinds of books, is all. Does it really matter?”

Eret just watches him, his expression ever-pleasant.

“I guess it doesn’t,” Eret agrees slowly. “But it’s sort of my job to help customers find what they’re looking for. If you can give me, like… a topic, or something, I can help you.”

Dream breathes out slowly, trying to keep himself from sighing. “... Do you have any books about the End? The Nether works fine, too.” 

“Are you limited on languages?” 

The question makes Dream pause. Eret never looks away, remaining relaxed and calm as he watches. 

“... Pardon?” 

“Can you read languages other than Common?”

“Yeah.” Dream isn’t sure if he should clarify, and he’s trying to keep himself from reeling at the shift in the conversation. “I mean— yeah. I can. Why?”

“I have other books I can offer, so long as you can read them.” Eret pushes off of the bookshelf and straightens up. “Give me a second.” 

He moves out of the shelves and Dream follows without thinking, trailing behind the bookkeeper in bewilderment.

Eret ducks into his cave of a front desk, vanishing out of sight as he digs through something just out of sight. Dream can hear Eret grumble, saying something quietly to himself before he gives some kind of exclamation. He pops back up with a stack of books in his arms that he drops on the counter with a heavy thud. 

Dream’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline, and Eret adjusts his sunglasses again. 

“I got these with the plan to have them translated, honestly.” Eret pats the top of the stack. “They’re supposedly a bunch of anthologies. Fairy tales and mythology and stuff like that.” 

Dream takes the top book off of the stack, leaning his forearms on the counter as he flips the cover open. 

His breath stalls in his chest as Runic stares back up at him, the symbols written in dark ink. He thinks of the symbols that float from his bookcases at home, of the painstaking hours he spent learning how to read these symbols until he could write each with his eyes closed. 

“If you can read them,” Eret continues, “I’ll let you borrow the set.” 

“Yeah.” Dream doesn’t take his eyes off of the words staring back at him. “There some kind of a catch?” 

Even without looking, he can hear the smile in Eret’s voice. 

“Translate them for me.”

Dream closes the book, reeling with all of the questions that flooded through him at the sight of the old tongue, and he stares at Eret. 

“Deal.” 

* * *

Nights in the city are cold, and Dream wishes he’d brought his cloak with him when he’d decided to go out. 

He rolls his head and rubs at a crick in his neck that formed from his hours of being hunched over the borrowed anthologies. As soon as Eret had handed him the tomes, Dream had taken them back to his room at the inn to try and translate them— and before he knew it, the night was heavy outside and his stomach was rumbling after not having had a proper meal all day. 

The inn doesn’t offer meals as late as it is, so that’s how Dream finds himself wandering the streets at night. The air is cool enough that his breath steams and dissipates into the air, and Dream keeps an eye out for lights and an ear out for sound. 

He’s a good walk away from the inn when sound catches his attention, and his head turns instinctively towards the noise. His feet follow suit, and Dream turns a corner to find an open door— warm light spills out of the door as patrons stumble out, and laughter and shouting comes from beyond the threshold. 

More importantly, he can smell food, and so Dream beelines for the entrance. 

The tavern is overly full and bustling with all kinds of characters, none of which bat an eyelash when Dream walks in. The late hour means that a good chunk of the patrons in the building are drunk or quickly approaching, jeering laughter filling the air. The sound is louder towards the back, and Dream steps out of the way as two men come inside, already red-faced and intoxicated, and stumble their way over towards a gathering crowd in the back. 

Dream watches for a moment before slinking towards the counter and pulling up an empty seat at the end. 

He orders something from the man behind the bar counter and his gaze travels back towards the group in the back. Someone shouts in frustration and the group explodes into a mixture of cheers and displeased jeers. 

He watches a man stumble out of his chair, slap his cards down, and shout, “Don’t touch my fuckin’ cards, fuckers, ‘m gettin another fuckin’ drink!” 

Dream watches the man stumble over, brushing off his shirt as he approaches, and he halfway crashes into the bar next to Dream. The grin on his face is almost manic as he waves a hand and hollers, “Ey, maestro! Get me another round, eh?”

The man raises his hand to tug at the tie pulled around his neck, loosening the fabric and sending a wide grin at the other patrons at the bar counter before he turns his head and catches sight of Dream. His eyebrows jump up, like he hadn’t noticed Dream was there, and his grin widens. 

“Hey there, cousin,” he greets, his voice just a little too loud and his words bubbling from intoxication. Even through his mask, Dream can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Hey,” Dream greets, not one to be immediately rude. “Good night?” 

“ _Great,_ ” the man snickers. “Phenomenal, actually! Fantastic! So long as someone doesn’t _fuck with my cards_!”

Dream throws a glance over his shoulder, and he sees someone at the table yank their hand back; a few other patrons laugh at them getting caught. 

Two drinks are set on the counter between them, and the drunk man grabs one and immediately slings it around to take a drink. Dream watches as the drink sloshes over the edge of the cup and onto the floor, but the drunk man doesn’t seem to be bothered. Dream feels something unpleasant prickle under his skin, but he tries to push away the unease.

“What ‘bout you, big guy?” The man slaps the back of a hand against Dream’s arm. “Good night?” 

“Night’s just starting.” Dream takes the other drink, eyeing it for a moment before cautiously raising it to his mouth. The familiar taste of cheap beer hits his tongue, and he drinks a quarter of it before setting it down. It’s not good beer, but it’s bearable and that’s good enough for him. 

The man snickers and raises his glass. “Cheers to that. Come join us for cards, big guy.” 

“Nah, I’m good.” A plate is set on the counter in front of Dream, and he immediately pulls it closer and rests an arm on the counter. “You have fun, though.” 

“Oh c’mon. You gonna be a wuss?”

“Can a guy eat his food in peace?” 

“Naaah.” The man waves him off. “Say, what’s your name?” 

“Dream. Yours?” 

“Most people ‘round here call me Schlatt.” 

Dream watches the man— _Schlatt_ — out of the corner of his eye as he spears potatoes on a fork and shoves them in his mouth. 

“I’ll consider it,” he says, words muffled slightly. He shovels more potatoes into his mouth.

Schlatt claps him on the shoulder and raises his drink slightly faster than necessary, more of the drink spilling over the top. “Great! Buy me a drink.”

“Hell no.”

“If I beat you in cards?” 

“Keep asking and I’m not _gonna_ play cards.” 

“Nooo,” Schlatt grins and leans into Dream’s space. “No, no, no, guy. You’re gonna play cards.” 

Dream just hums and doesn’t say anything, taking a swig from his beer. Still cheap, but it helps wash down the food. 

Schlatt shrugs and goes back over to the group in the back, shouting something about the others fuckin’ with his cards, and Dream watches the group for a little bit longer before turning back to his meal. 

The group in the back occasionally explodes into noise, and when Dream finishes his meal he buys another drink and saunters over towards the crowd. Schlatt is leaning against the table with his deck tilted towards his chest and out of view, and the men he’s playing with are bickering over the pot as they play. 

Dream watches Schlatt take a swig from his almost-empty drink, draining the rest of it and slamming his glass down as he lays out his cards— a winning hand, from what Dream can tell. 

Schlatt crows, “Pass over the pot, boys!” and the other two grumble and complain as they throw their cards down. 

A few people in the watching group laugh at the sight, and Dream hangs out at the back for a moment as he thinks. The crowd has drifted a little bit, thinning out as more people went to go get drinks or leave for the night, and Dream wonders. 

Dream leans over the back of one of the chairs, setting the drink next to Schlatt. His appearance startled the three men, who all look to him with some measure of surprise. 

“Care to deal me in?”

Schlatt’s face breaks into a grin and gestures to an empty chair diagonal to him. “Take a seat, buddy. Karl, deal in our friend, huh?” 

As Dream takes a seat, the man across from him passes him a hand of cards with a warm and very drunk kind of smile. Dream gives a slight nod and pulls his deck closer to him. 

“So… Karl and Schlatt. Name?” Dream looks at the other member of the party, and the guy gives him a partial salute and a grin as he reclines over the back of his chair.

“Quackity works,” the man chirps, a grin on his face and colour on his cheeks. The table has empty bottles and glasses, and these three have been here drinking and playing cards longer than Dream has even been in the establishment.

Dream wonders if he’s the only sober person in this tavern. A glance at the clock, which is creeping ever-closer to midnight, leads him to assuming that yeah, he probably is. 

“Nice to meet you guys. What’s the starting pot?” 

It doesn’t take long for the four of them to get into the swing of the game, people coming and going to check on the progress. 

Schlatt wins the first two hands; Karl wins the hand after; Quackity wins the following three by a single card; and Dream gets an overwhelming win with a run of royalty cards. The pot passes around without anyone ever properly taking anything. Dream puts in the bare minimal, taking from the pot exactly whatever he put back in. 

Quackity and Karl don’t seem to notice, but Dream can’t help but feel like Schlatt’s eyes are burning into his skull, like he’s trying to see past his mask. He watches Schlatt cautiously— the man keeps downing drinks, colour flushing along his skin slowly, but it almost seems like… too much. 

He doesn’t know if his paranoia is the one speaking or not.

Schlatt leans back and shouts to the bar, “Hey, another round!” 

“Haven’t you guys drank enough?” Dream lets amusement creep into his voice, trying to keep the suspicion out of it. 

“Nahh,” Quackity waves him off. “Schlatt does this all the time.”

“Get totally fucking wasted over cards?” 

“It’s called, _‘having a good time’_ , stick-ass,” Schlatt slings back, words slurred. He grins in a way that Dream can’t help but find almost predatory. “You not have the concept of a good time where you’re from?” 

Dream presses his tongue against the back of his teeth to keep himself from retorting. He shuffles his cards in his hands. 

“I knew it!” Schlatt cackles. “C’mon, big guy, loosen up.” 

Karl chimes in, “You can’t force him to drink if he doesn’t want to.”

“Doesn’t have to drink to chill out a little bit.” Schlatt shrugs. “Where’re you from, anyways?” 

“East of here.” Dream shrugs and pretends to take a drink. “You guys from Manberg?” 

“Born and bred!” Karl grins brightly. 

“I mean, I _live_ here.” Quackity shrugs and makes a ‘so-so’ gesture with his free hand. He draws another card. “So, sure.” 

“Manberg’s home, man.” Schlatt taps his cards against the table, straightening his hand. “Where east?” 

“East.” Dream draws a card. “You guys like it here?” 

“Yeah! I mean, Schlatt said it. It’s home.” Quackity raises his drink to his mouth, and Dream can see his lips curled into a smile. 

Dream hums. Karl takes a card.

“You thinking about settling down here or somethin’?” Schlatt takes a card.

“Just passing through.” 

“Just passing?” Karl nudges a card towards Quackity. “Damn, man. Come drinking with us again before you leave.” 

“I’ll think about it. I won’t be here for long.” Dream wonders if that’s a lie or not. 

The round Schlatt called for is delivered, and Dream nudges his drink towards Schlatt. Schlatt doesn’t take it; Quackity and Karl don’t notice. 

Eventually playing cards falls away into banter and talking— a few questions get Quackity and Karl to launch into telling stories, and Dream offers a few stories he’s heard second-hand from merchants at home. Never anything about himself, though. 

He glances at Schlatt when Karl dives into another story, this time something to do with city guards and getting in trouble as a teenager. Schlatt is listening to Karl in that distracted way that he knows drunk people do— he saw it at parties at home, in the times he’s been around other people getting wasted. He takes a gulp of his drink, suds clinging to the side of his mouth that he wipes away sloppily. 

Schlatt’s eyes feel too keen, too aware, for someone who’s been drinking as much as Dream has seen Schlatt drink. It makes his skin prickle. 

He tries to tell himself he’s just being paranoid. 

“I fold.” Dream sets his cards face-down on the table and makes it a point to turn his head towards the clock hung up on the wall. “And I should probably leave.”

“What?” Quackity frowns. “C’mon, dude, hang out for a little longer.”

“Yeah! This has been fun— it’s not even that late!” 

The clock says otherwise, as do the lowering number of patrons in the tavern. Dream pushes his chair out and gets up, nudging it back into place after him. 

“I’m alright,” he reassures. “This was fun, though. Thanks for having me. G’night.” 

He raises two fingers in a casual salute and heads towards the exit. He didn’t keep a tab, luckily. 

“Hey, hey, hey—” Schlatt jerks to his feet. Dream hears the clatter of a chair hitting the ground and a quiet, slurred curse as Schlatt trips over it. In no time at all, an arm slings around his neck and weight hangs off of his shoulder as Schlatt leans into his space and traps him there. “C’mon! Just a few more rounds, big guy, it’ll be fun—” 

Dream’s pulse jumps and his fingers twitch. He doesn’t have components, why did he leave his components, he should know better than to leave his _fucking components_ —

“Oh my _fucking_ god.” 

And then Schlatt’s weight is pulled off of Dream’s shoulders. Dream tries to keep his breathing even as he looks at his apparent saviour, and he’s greeted by a man with curly hair peeking out from beneath a beanie. Schlatt hangs in his arms, scowling like a child.

“Wilbur, get the fuck off me—” 

“Sorry about him,” ‘Wilbur’ apologises, giving Dream a slight smile as he keeps a firm grip on his companion. “Guy’s an absolutely _sloppy_ drunk, he just gets like this.” 

“Might want to keep a closer eye on your friend,” Dream responds dryly. Schlatt has essentially collapsed in Wilbur’s arms, all of his weight being held up by the other man as Schlatt seems to pout. He’s definitely making himself Wilbur’s problem— Dream doesn’t mind because that means Schlatt isn’t _his_ problem.

Wilbur smiles, a hint exasperated. “I’ll try my best. Sorry about him, again.” 

Dream eyes Schlatt again and just gives Wilbur a nod. “It’s… fine.” 

With that, he gives another stiff nod and makes his way out of the tavern. Dream tells himself he isn’t running away and all but bolts into the night, desperate to get back to the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by @VolarFinch/ 
> 
> Some more familiar faces! Schlatt is way too much fun to write.  
> This took me a little longer to write, honestly, I was having soooo much trouble with getting it started for some reason. But I'm really happy with this chapter!  
> Thank you so much for reading!! I'll see y'all next chapter ;]


	9. dreamed they flew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It doesn’t help, really, and Dream still can’t sleep._   
>  _I need to go flying, he thinks._
> 
> Dream does some translating, and goes for a flight.

He can’t sleep.

Dream knows why he can’t sleep, but the inability is frustrating. He stares at the inn ceiling and closes his eyes for the fourth time, trying to regulate his breathing into something slow— to convince himself that he’s fine, he’s safe, he has no reason to be wide awake and alert. 

Patches is curled up next to his head, her chin resting on his shoulder as she sleeps soundly next to him. 

He turns his head to look at her and watches the gentle rise and fall of her flank against the eerie stillness that cats have when they sleep. He sees her tail flick slowly, a sign that she’s dreaming, and tries to match his breathing with each little movement. 

It doesn’t help, really, and Dream still can’t sleep. 

_ I need to go flying _ , he thinks, the decision startling him slightly. 

He lets his gaze travel to the window of his room, where moonlight drifts through the slats of the blinds.

He probably  _ does  _ need to go flying, admittedly. Flight has just been his primary mode of travel since he left— he hasn’t flown just to fly in a few weeks, and he finds himself seeking the adrenaline rush of it. Maybe that would rid the jittery feeling in his bones, the paranoia that has clung to him for days now. 

He closes his eyes again— the fifth time, once again a loss. 

A frustrated sigh leaves him, and Dream sits up. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, digs through his bag, and pulls out pepper flakes before moving towards the inn room’s desk. 

He sits down in the chair, uncorking the pepper flakes and taking a pinch that he holds between his fingers. He reaches for the candle he’d been burning down for the past few nights and presses it between his fingers. The pepper flakes spark between his fingers before the wick lights, and he pulls his hand away. 

The books Eret lent him lay open across the desk top, piles of papers littering the free spaces between. A ribbon marks his place in one of the tomes, and Dream pulls it closer to himself to skim over some of the pages. 

Eret was right about them simply being anthologies— Dream easily recognizes a lot of the folklore in the books, but the base stories are expanded upon. The Runic stories almost double the length of what he was used to, and with every story he translates he wonders why the Common stories water down the contents so much. 

He brushes his hand across the pages and looks down at the story. 

This was one about the first witches. It doesn’t mention the End by name, much to Dream’s disappointment, but it does detail how witches came to discover their abilities. Mundane tasks suddenly thrumming with life, being able to feel the very soul of everything in the world. The story speaks about a witch’s connection to magic, a witch’s connection to the earth. 

The story itself is poetic, almost. It speaks of different kinds of witches and what they relate to, connecting them all back to a ‘cycle’. Some witches cultivate the cycle, assisting in growth, in pushing through stasis. Some witches are the cycle’s support, those who allow for it to expand and change. Some witches seek to destroy, but they’re simply the ones tasked with the end to the cycle, leading to a renewal. 

The story speaks about the witches who seek out more when the cycle falls into stasis. Those witches restore movement to the cycle when there isn’t anyone else to continue it. Each witch contributes to the cycle that is provided simply by attuning to and using it, learning with it and growing with it.

Dream translates the words as they cross his vision, the rust of disuse fading with every line he reads and recognizes.

...He wonders what the cycle is.

He finishes translating the passage and leans back in his chair, chewing on his bottom lip as he thinks.

Runic doesn’t translate perfectly into Common. There are different letters and different sounds and Dream keeps catching himself reading symbols wrong and having to reread entire sentences to check his mistranslations. 

He rubs his temples and sighs, placing his bookmark back.

Reaching for the candle, Dream pauses as he sees how much is actually remaining of the wax. Translating takes time, obviously, but he obviously underestimated how much time it takes. 

A slow breath escapes him and Dream blows out the candle before standing. His feet carry him back to his bed and he lays back down, sprawling on his stomach while being careful to avoid bumping into Patches. 

Patches simply rolls over as he settles, curling into his side and purring softly as she exhales. Dream brushes his hand across her fur and hooks his arm around his pillow, breathing out slowly. 

His mind sticks to the story, reaching for threads he isn’t entirely sure are there. Nothing so far has proved particularly helpful in his personal research, but translating at least gives him something to do. Translating helps pull him away from his borderline obsession, even if he still finds himself desperately seeking threads with every line of Runic he has to read. 

Dream groans in irritation at himself and raises a hand to pinch his nose, breathing out slowly. 

Even though he knows it won’t, he can’t help but wish for his brain to quiet down some. Just so he can get some sleep.

He feels weight settle on his back, Patches’ purring beginning a steady rumble against his back. He can almost feel himself unwind under the feeling, sinking into the mattress as he relaxes slightly. 

Even though his brain is still whirling at a million miles an hour, he focuses on the sensation. The warmth of Patches’ fur seeps through his shirt, her purring incessant and comforting. He can feel her paws kneading his shirt, claws snagging in the fabric every so often as she does. 

He closes his eyes, releasing his threads to consciousness one-by-one.

Dream thinks about flying, and then he’s completely and blissfully gone.

* * *

“Dream!” 

Niki’s voice rings cheerfully in the store as Dream walks in, perking up from where she’s wiping down the countertop up front. 

Dream raises a hand and offers a smile, grateful that his mask hides the shadows he’s sure decorate his eyes. Even with Patches’ help, sleep was fitful and sporadic and exhaustion still clings uncomfortably to his every movement. 

“Morning, Niki,” he greets. 

Niki looks closely at him as she leans on the counter, quiet for just a moment. She responds, “You seem tired.” 

“Didn’t sleep well, is all.” Dream shrugs off her concern and tilts his head to look at the display case for the day. “Patches isn’t with me today, sorry about that.” 

“It’s alright,” Niki reassures. “I can always see her another day. What can I get for you?” 

Dream orders coffee and pie before retreating back to the booth he’d claimed as his own over the past week. His broom is dislodged from its place on his back, and he stows it beneath the tabletop before settling down and reaching for a book. Dream hesitates with his hand hovering over the storybook of the End and forces himself to pick up another, this time a parable centered around iron golems. 

The story is cute, he thinks. It has the same kinds of illustrations that the other stories have, simple but important, comfortably aligned with the way the words are written. 

There’s the familiar clink of ceramic as Niki sets down a mug and a plate in front of him, and Dream closes the book and places it back. 

“Thanks, Niki.” 

“Of course.” Niki beams. “I hope you feel better.” 

Dream blinks, eyebrows raising. “Oh. Uh… thank you.” 

He gets a friendly pat on the shoulder before Niki makes her way back to the front. Dream raises the mug to his mouth, the bitter taste of coffee familiar. The act of eating and drinking is mindless, and he allows his thoughts to drift back towards the clouded mass that composed his headspace since he’s woken up. 

The jingle of the bell filters into the fog of his brain, but what really catches his attention is a cheerful call of, “Niki!” 

His gaze flickers up, head tilting fractionally as he zeroes in on the voice from before. He zeroes in on curly hair poking out from a beanie and a yellow sweater, and he tries to not stare as Niki grins and greets, “Good morning, Wilbur!” 

Dream watches Wilbur walk up to greet Niki, almost immediately beginning to chatter away as he does. He can’t help but think about their brief interaction at the tavern, of Wilbur pulling Schlatt off of him and apologizing for his sloppy-drunk friend. Wilbur seemed nice enough then, but the memory is enough to set his nerves alight. 

He digs into his pie, trying to calm his nerves as he does. He tries to ignore Wilbur and just focuses on eating— the sooner he finishes, the sooner he can leave. The sooner he can go flying. 

He takes a long drink from his mug in an attempt to wash away the lump in his throat, and his gaze catches Wilbur right as the man turns and looks in his direction. 

Wilbur’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the sight of him, and for once Dream wishes his mask wasn’t particularly recognizable. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth and sets his cup down. 

“Small world, huh?” 

Fuck him. Dream tilts his head back to look up at Wilbur as the other approaches, a warm smile on his face. Dream notes that he has dimples.

“You’re the guy from the tavern,” Dream observes. 

Wilbur laughs, rubbing his neck. “Yeah, that was me! Sorry again about Schlatt.” 

“Eh, it’s cool.” It wasn’t, but Dream may as well be polite. “Thanks for saving me from him.” 

“I wouldn’t say  _ saving _ , exactly, but you’re welcome anyways.” Wilbur laughs and takes a seat opposite of Dream. Dream catches his broom and pulls it closer to himself with his heels. 

Dream hums. “You know Niki?” 

“Most people know Niki.” Wilbur leans forward on his elbows. “But yeah! She and I are old friends.” 

Dream nods a little bit. “Fair enough. She’s a good kid.” 

“Isn’t she? She’s like a sister, but to like— everyone. All the time.” 

Dream snorts, smiling slightly. “You know, that doesn’t really surprise me.” 

Wilbur laughs good-naturedly and leans back. Dream finishes his pie and drains the rest of his coffee right as Niki comes over. She sets a mug in front of Wilbur, peeking curiously between the two of them. 

“Do you two know each other?” Curiosity is clear in Niki’s voice, and Dream glances at Wilbur. 

“Oh, I met him a few days ago.” Wilbur waves a hand. “We only really said a few words.” 

Niki smiles, perking up a little bit. “Oh! Well, that’s nice! Wilbur, this is Dream. Dream, this is Wilbur, he’s a good friend of mine.” 

“Nice to meet you properly, Dream.” Wilbur holds out a hand over the table. Dream takes it and gives a firm shake. Wilbur’s hands are cold, and his eyes are fixed firmly on him, a curious intensity lingering in his gaze.

Dream responds, “Likewise.”

He slides out of the booth and stands, crouching down to grab his broom and slide it back into its place beneath his cloak before he stands again. He gives a small nod and a two-fingered salute, lips quirked into a smile. 

“Thanks for the coffee as always, Niki. Good to meet you, Wilbur. Seeya.” A little wave and Dream ducks back out to the street, hands in his pockets.

His feet carry him through the city, weaving between roads and taking his time as he wanders to the edge of the city. Buildings begin to thin the further away he gets from the heart of the city, the treeline beginning to reappear further from civilization. Dream checks his compass just to check what direction he’s going, making note of the way to get back to Manberg. 

As the forest gets denser, Dream takes a sharp turn to go in another direction, leaving the path he’d been taking. The trees get closer together the further he goes, and he dislodged his broom from his back in favour of holding it in his hand. 

The sun is well overhead now, and Dream’s a good bit away from the city. 

With a slow intake of breath, he brackets his broom between his legs. He pushes off the ground, hovering a few feet above for a few long ticks before he pushes himself forward. He weaves slowly between the trees, pulling the handle of his broom up to begin rising higher. He continues to weave between trees and branches, using the natural landscape as an obstacle course. 

He pushes his broom faster, weaving around and bobbing his broom higher and lower, skirting just over the forest floor and diving between the slats of branches. 

He dives down, swirls around the trunk of a tree, and uses the momentum to rocket upwards. He allows himself to climb, and he dips a hand into a pouch on his belt. 

A coffee bean is tossed into his mouth, and Dream shoots forward with an explosion of speed that rockets him up and up and up—

The cold air burns his lungs and adrenaline burns his veins, and all he can think about as he flies higher is the rush and the freedom that this gives him. The stress that had clung to him for these past few days begins to dissipate as he bursts through the clouds, and continues going higher. 

He twists his broom, changing his trajectory from a straight line to more of a spiral. 

He dives and weaves in the clouds, the cold moisture flinging to his clothes as the clouds follow the velocity of his movements. 

Delight bubbles in his chest, and Dream tilts his head back as he lets out an exhilarated whoop. 

He dives down, dropping a fair distance before pulling his broom up and hauling himself higher into the sky. Back up through the clouds he goes, the air thinning the higher he goes. 

Deciding that this height was fine, Dream cracks the coffee bean between his teeth and pulls his broom up. 

As there always is, there’s a long moment of clarity and stillness as he tilts himself backwards, and Dream uses it to take in the view. The forest is spread out for miles below him, and he can see the gradual change from the taiga to the oak trees from this height. He can see Manberg as well, the city sprawling out miles beyond him. 

He allows himself to take it all in. The sight, the thrill— uncrossing his ankles allows him to be separated from his broom— and he is flying, for just a moment. 

And then he falls. 

As he always does, Dream falls away from his apex as his body peels away from his broom. He doesn’t fight the pull of gravity, instead stretching his arms out to feel the air pull past him as he plummets back to the earth. 

His laughter is lost to the wind and the sky as he goes, watching the trees as his descent brings him closer to the forest floor.

He swings his broom back around, sending himself spinning dizzyingly as he hooks his ankles around his broom and orients himself. Before he can get the ground, he pulls his broom up to send himself shooting along the ground and curving back up to the sky. He barely breaks the treetops before he allows himself to fall again, catching himself again on his broom. 

He pulls away from the ground at the last second, taking a sharp turn to avoid a tree, and Dream yelps as he goes tumbling off of his broom. 

It isn’t a far fall, only a few feet, but he catches himself and rolls over his shoulder to disperse the moment. He sprawls out on the forest floor, breathing heavily with his broom just within reach. Dream stares up at the branches overhead, lungs heaving as he gathers himself. 

The warmth in his chest bubbles up and out as a wheeze, and soon enough Dream finds himself laughing. 

The adrenaline is beginning to ebb away as he lays on the forest floor, laughing and happy and feeling altogether lighter than he has… in a few weeks, he thinks. Since his snowball fight with Tubbo and Tommy, back with Sam.

He raises a hand to run it through his hair as he laughs himself out, and eventually pushes himself back to a sitting position. 

He checks his compass and pushes himself to his feet, brushing away dirt and twigs that stuck to him and his cloak. Scooping up his broom again, Dream slings it over his back and starts moving back towards Manberg. He keeps his compass out to navigate, humming quietly to himself as a testament to his improved mood. 

He could just relax for the rest of the day, he thinks. Rest and keep translating the books tomorrow. 

“Yeah, right.” Dream laughs to himself. He knows himself well enough to know he’ll probably just go right back to translating and working, but it would be way more pleasant with his good mood. 

He lets his thoughts wander pleasantly as he goes, oblivious to the gaze burning into his back as he goes. 

A figure steps out of his hiding spot, hand raising to rub the back of his neck as he watches Dream vanish through the trees on his trek back to Manberg. He brushes his hands off on his yellow sweater, a contemplative look on his face. 

“Well,” Wilbur murmurs softly, brushing curls out of his eyes, “I’ll be damned. Schlatt was right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by @VolarFinch/ 
> 
> Dream's picking up pieces, but so are some other people, huh?  
> As always, thank you for reading! <3  
> See you all next chapter!! :D


	10. burn your skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He calls over, “Why’d you ask me to translate those books, anyways?”_   
>  _“I can’t read Runic.”_   
>  _Dream’s brow pinches slightly and he follows the bookcase, poking his head out to look at Eret as he organizes his shelves. “But you assumed that I could?”_
> 
> More pieces are being put together in the puzzle, and things start heating up.

_ When the world itself began, it came split, and fractured.  _

_ The shadow of the world, its mirror, is one of crimson rock and fire, filled with creatures beyond imagining. Where water shall be, instead there is magma and fire. The deserts’ sand steals strength and speed from those who walk across it, ash drifts from the sky as a cruel mockery of snow, and the shadow's inhabitants are violent and cruel.  _

_ The deceased are once again walking, souls of agony take flight, and swine are walking upright as men and amble through the crimson world. Death seems a mere inconvenience to the inhabiting creatures. _

_ Buried within the world's shadow are civilizations— and whether they were built by inhabitants of current or past, one cannot know. This world, this hell, is an overlap. The shadow of the world of life and living, filled with cruelty and death, can be said to draw forth those from all realms of existence.  _

_ The journey is lengthy, arduous and exhausting and strictly for those who have the will to rival the gods. These lands are dangerous, but within them comes great reward.  _

_ Barricades of gilded black stone contain riches unimaginable, should one creep their way through the inhabitants. Fortresses of black brick stand lonesome and empty save for the living hellfire born within. They call for those who seek treasure, who seek knowledge, and who seek adventure. For those with the will to endure may gifts be granted onto them. _

* * *

Dream leans into his hand as he stares down at the translated passage. He smooths his hand across the page, rereading some of the Runic lines that stare back up at him. 

The description is one he's seen before, even if it was in far lesser detail. A land filled with red rock and fire— Dream thinks back to the few times he's read stories pertaining to the Nether, and how the so-called world that has been described in the books matches that of the Nether perfectly. 

He closes the book and leans back in his chair, balancing on the back two legs and staring up at the ceiling of his room. 

The Nether… 

_ They call for those adventurers who seek treasure, who seek knowledge. _

Dream chews on the inside of his cheek as he considers, his knee bouncing as he staves off some lingering energy from sitting still for so long. 

_ But how does one get to the Nether? _

The passage talks about knowledge— if he can find a way to the Nether, maybe he can find something about the End. Fuck, maybe he could find a way  _ to _ the End, if he's  _ really _ lucky.

He laughs a little bit and shakes his head. 

"I'm not that lucky," he muses. 

It’s an amusing thought, though, and pulls some of the weight of exhaustion off of his shoulders. That particular favour is done— he picks up one of the untranslated books just to skim through them. 

He leans forward, his chair settling back on all four legs as he stands up and closes the book. It’s only one book finished, obviously, but it’s a starting point for the others.

Stretching his arms over his head, he paces the perimeter of the room as he muses over his options. He wants to go to the library soon, and he can just drop the book off on the way. 

Content with that plan, he reaches for his bag.

* * *

“Hey, Eret.” 

Eret pokes his head out from around a bookcase, and he raises a hand. “Hey, Dream. Welcome back.” 

Dream opens the top of his bag and pulls out the translated book, holding it out in offering. “Here. I finished this one.” 

“That was fast.” Eret takes the book from his hands, flipping the cover open and skimming through the pages. Dream’s translation for the words are written between the lines— it should be easy enough to read, at least, even if Eret would have to transcribe it into a different book himself. “Yeah, you did that _really_ fast. Thanks.” 

“Not a problem. I just have to translate the other, like… three, now.” 

Eret laughs a little bit, closing the book and wandering around to the front counter, where he places the book beneath the counter and back out of sight. He glances up at Dream, adjusting his sunglasses. “I appreciate you doing this, by the way.” 

“You let me loiter in here most days of the week without me buying anything, so I may as well.” Dream shrugs slightly, sticking his hands into his pockets. “Plus, I’m getting something out of it too, so… it’s whatever.” 

Eret shakes his head with a smile and leaves the back counter, walking back towards the bookcase he had been working near. Dream watches him vanish back out of sight again, tapping his thumb against the top of his leg as he considers. He’d been too taken off guard to mention it originally, but the books…

He calls over, “Why’d you ask me to translate those books, anyways?” 

“I can’t read Runic.” 

Dream’s brow pinches slightly and he follows the bookcase, poking his head out to look at Eret as he organizes his shelves. “But you assumed that  _ I _ could?” 

Eret pauses briefly in his organization, hand hovering with a book before he finishes placing it back on the shelf. “I asked you if you could.” 

“You asked if I could read more than Common,” he points out. “Never really mentioned Runic. How’d you recognize it, anyways?” 

Eret places another book on the shelf without saying anything, and Dream watches his jaw work subtly. He’s thinking, Dream realizes. 

“My parents knew Runic,” is what Eret finally says. 

Dream lets the words hang in the air, and he watches Eret file books for a few moments. 

Even without much context, that’s almost an admission. Runic isn’t a dead language by any means, but it’s rare to see others who acknowledge the language— Dream has met a handful of linguists who can read it, and some people in his village can read it, but he only ever encounters Runic with…

Well. He only really sees it with Sapnap and George.

Thinking about them sends a pang of longing through him that Dream is quick to brush to the side; he focuses on Eret. 

Dream casts a glance around the bookstore, checking for other customers, and then drops his volume as he asks, “Are you a witch?”

Eret pauses, and Dream can hear him take in a long, deep breath. There’s a flicker of something in his expression with the draw of his eyebrows and the stiffening of his shoulders, and Dream finds himself taking a step back. He crossed some sort of a line, he’s pretty sure

“I’m not, no.” Eret sighs, his shoulders drooping slightly as he does. “My mother was, though.” 

_ Was _ . 

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what else to say, and he feels like an apology would sound… empty. “...That… puts a few things into perspective, though.” 

Eret turns his head slightly, glancing at him. “Does it?”

“Just the Runic, mainly,” Dream admits, raising a hand to rub at his neck. 

“Ah.” He places the book in his hand back on the shelf and turns his body to lean against it, arms folded as he looks directly at Dream. “I would expect you to look a bit more concerned with that information.” 

“We have witches where I come from. I’m not exactly afraid of them.” Dream shrugs a little bit— it’s not a lie, he’s just omitting the part where he is  _ also _ a witch. 

Eret hums quietly, and Dream is keenly aware of the way Eret stares, lips pursed slightly as he considers Dream. Dream just watches him back and fights the urge to readjust his mask to cover more of his face. 

Regardless, though, he backs down and raises his hands in surrender. “I was just curious, is all.” 

“Fair enough.” Eret pushes off of the bookshelf, straightening up. “Are you going to be browsing here today?” 

“Nah, I’ve got other plans today.” Dream adjusts his bag across his body, and hooks his thumbs in his pocket. “I just wanted to return the book I translated, since this place is on the way.” 

“Fair enough.” Eret turns back to the bookshelves. “See you around, Dream.” 

“See you.” Dream gives a small two-fingered salute and sees himself out. 

* * *

“Pardon me.” 

The woman at the front desk looks up from where she’s writing in a ledger of some kind, and she quirks an eyebrow at Dream. 

Dream offers as much of a smile as can be seen, raising a hand to rub at his neck. “Hey, uh… Where do you guys keep, like, your journals and stuff? Like scientific studies and that kind of stuff.” 

The librarian appraises him for a moment, raising a hand and adjusting the spectacles on her nose before she pushes her chair back and leans over. He watches her produce a piece of paper and skim over it for a moment. 

“What exactly are you looking for?” 

“Just journals and studies, mainly. Nothing historical, but like… experiments, maybe. Or recipes and instructions on how to recreate stuff like that, those are alright too.” 

The librarian gives him a bit of a skeptical look before she looks back at the guide paper in her hand. “Second floor, towards the west wing.”

Dream nods and gives a small wave of his hand. “Thanks.” 

He receives a hum of acknowledgement in response and he turns on heel to head in that direction. He finds the staircase that leads to the second floor and makes his way up, hands in his pockets. Patches pokes her head out of his bag, meowing quietly at him as he gets to the top of the stairs and makes his way to the west side.

His fingers drag along the spines of books as he skims over the names of books. The tale from Eret’s anthologies felt like a good place to start. The idea of structures in the Nether is… relatively intriguing, but more importantly it’s  _ promising _ . It’s a physical place to start, something Dream has been searching for, and it leaves him wanting. 

But he has to find a way to  _ get there _ , first.

Fairytales won’t do him much good on finding a way there. Scientific journals might. 

He pulls a book off of the shelf and goes to settle in one of the corners to read, more than ready to lose himself in the process of research again. Time slips by him as he zeroes in on the information he can read, and he has to spend a good amount of time properly hunting for the topics he’s looking for. 

There’s rumours and speculations in journals, and there are offhanded stories he’s read before in bound books, but not much new information. He reads about thin overlaps of the world where someone can go from one world to the next, where it’s easier to cross between the mirrors. He reads about the speculation of manmade gateways that can assist in going between, and yet no idea on how to construct them.

He doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he shoves himself away from the desk he’d occupied to rub at his eyes, and Patches leaps up onto his lap. 

She meows at him, raising up on her hind legs to press her paws to his front, leaning forward to sniff at his face. 

“Hey, girl,” he murmurs, scratching behind her ears. 

Dream glances towards the window and blinks as he sees lanterns outside being lit. It… had barely been noon when he’d arrived, and yet… 

He glances down at the sprawling of books across the table, and gives a small sigh. “Good gods.” 

Patches meows again, hopping onto the table and sitting on one of the books. 

It’s obvious that she has no intentions of letting Dream go any further with research tonight, and he’s not willing to stoop to arguing with his cat. 

“We should go get you some more food.” He raises a hand and scratches under her chin. “C’mon, let’s go see if there’s any vendors open that have fish.” 

Patches looks pleased, and she hops down to resettle into his bag. Dream closes the books he’d been reading and leaves them in a stack on the table. He’ll be coming back again the next day, probably— he’ll just pick up right where he left off, and all should be fine. 

The night is cold as Dream steps out into it, and he turns his feet towards the marketplace. He doesn’t expect for there to be anywhere open at this hour, but there’s no harm in checking anyways. 

He rubs his neck, fighting the urge to adjust his mask as he goes. His footsteps feel loud on the cobble, and for a moment he wishes he’d decided to carry a weapon on him and not leave them back at his inn room. Worst case, he can always use magic, but the weight of an axe is a comforting presence after so long with it on his back. 

He turns a corner and jolts in surprise as someone knocks into his shoulder, stepping back to catch himself. 

“Hey watch wh—” The man who bumped into him cuts off halfway through the beginning of his swear, gaze focusing on Dream’s mask. Some clarity comes to his expression, and Dream feels something unpleasant stir in his gut as Schlatt grins at him. “Hey! It’s you!” 

“It’s certainly me.” Dream gives a small nod of his head. “Funny running into you.” 

“Certainly a fun coincidence,” Schlatt agrees, far more enthusiastically. “Hey, big guy, you wanna come drinking again? It was a fun time.” 

“Yeah, I’m… good. Don’t really wanna see a stranger get sloppy-drunk again.” There’s a joking note to his voice but Dream’s words are honest. Drinking with Schlatt was unpleasant _ — _ he has no real interest in doing it again. “Thanks for the offer, though.” 

“C’mon, man, it’ll be fun—”    
  
“No.” Dream narrows his eyes behind his mask. “Appreciate the offer, seriously, but I’m fine.”

Schlatt backs off, raising his hands in surrender with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Aight, aight. If you say so.” He flashes a grin. “If ya change your mind, though, feel free to come hang.” 

“Thanks. Night.” Dream ducks around the corner and picks up his pace. With a quiet mumble of apology to Patches, he makes a beeline back to the inn, only swerving through streets a few times as he goes. The market would have to wait for tomorrow.

* * *

When Dream walks into Niki’s cafe the next morning, Wilbur is sitting in the spot Dream has been taking up for the past few weeks, and Niki is finishing up what looks to be a lengthy line. 

When Dream makes his way to the front, he catches Niki’s eye and gives her a nod of greeting that she returns with a smile. 

“Good morning!” She chirps. “Coffee again?” 

“Please.” 

“Coming right up.” She gives Dream a bright grin, and Dream goes to hover at the end of the counter for now. He’ll need the coffee, he thinks— especially if he loses track of time again, like he did the night before. 

He makes a mental note to try and not do that— he wants to get to the market for fish for Patches as an apology for not getting any the night before. 

He rubs the pad of his thumb over his cuticle, watching the other patrons of the store as he waits. When his gaze falls on Wilbur, he can see the man look up and wave at him with a smile. He raises his hand in greeting before turning his gaze back to the rest of the cafe, humming quietly. 

“Not sitting down, this time?” Niki appears at his elbow and Dream tries to not jump, gaze flickering down to her. 

“Nah. I’m actually gonna, uh…” He pulls a thermos out of his bag. “I was gonna put it in here and go.” 

“Busy day?” Niki takes his thermos from him, transferring the coffee from the mug to the thermos neatly before handing it back.

“Something like that.” He accepts the thermos, tucking it back into his bag. “Sorry for uh… making extra dishes for you.” 

Niki waves him off with a shrug. “It’s fine, it happens. Good luck doing whatever you’re doing today!” 

Dream gives her a tired smile in response. “Thanks, Niki. Seeya.” 

She waves goodbye as he trots out, feet immediately turning towards the library. He opens his thermos, downing about half of his coffee as he goes— just to preemptively get the energy going for when he gets there.

The library feels more full than Dream has seen it so far, the majority of the seats and tables taken up by anyone ranging from student-age kids to a handful of straggling adults with greying hair. Dream passes a group of children, being read some kind of child’s tale by a teenager a number of years older than them. 

He makes his way up to the second floor of the library, skipping steps as he makes his way up the staircase and back to where he had been sitting the night before. 

Dream finds the stack of books he’d mostly stashed away, scooping them up and returning to the table he’d been using the night before. 

He grabs more books, settling into the routine of research as he delves back into the information he’d managed to learn about the Nether so far. 

He’s skimming a passage about the potential ways that one could get to or from the Nether when he hears murmuring from below. He ignores it at first, trying to block out the noise at first. 

And then he smells smoke. 

Dream’s head shoots up at the smell, the book immediately forgotten as he searches for the source. The murmuring rises in volume, panic threading through the crowds while Dream finds himself scanning what he can see.

He’s on his feet, ready to look for the source himself as the veneer of calm from the occupants below snaps, a voice from below shouting:  _ “Fire!” _

And all hell breaks loose. 

Dream swears quietly, abandoning the books on the table and shoving his personal notes and journals into his bag. He can’t do anything about the belongings of a public library, but he can protect his own shit, and that’s what’s important to him now. 

He whirls around the bookshelves, stopping at the top of the stairs as hot air buffets him and he’s confronted with the growing blaze lapping at the shelves below him and largely blocking his exit. 

He swears, backpedalling and glancing over the railing of the second story. The majority of the crowd has pushed its way to the front of the building, pushing and shoving in an attempt to get out. If he can’t take the stairs, then—

Well. Over the railing is going to have to work, then. 

His hand disappears into his bag, blindly reaching for a component before he produces a feather. 

Dream glances back towards the staircase, blows on the feather, and vaults over the edge of the railing. 

The spell takes effect immediately— the air catches and cushions him as he falls, pulling him to the earth but preventing any of the damage that would usually come from someone falling the height that he had just jumped from. He pushes himself properly to his feet, wheezing as his lungs begin to sting unpleasantly, and he begins to move towards the door. Everyone was rushing to get out, no one saw him, he can just blend into the crowd and get out of the building. 

His gaze flickers up to find golden eyes staring at him from within the crowd, and his blood runs cold. 

Schlatt grins at him, and his voice rises above the clamber of the crowd, and Dream feels like the entire world slows with the word that rings out in the air. 

_ “Witch!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by VolarFinch/ 
> 
> This chapter was sort of a pain to write, but I cannot tell you how absolutely thrilled I am for the NEXT chapter.   
> This part is real, real fun, and the next chapter or two are gonna be a fun time, I think!   
> As always, thank you for reading! I'll see you next chapter <3


	11. burn over distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He may be a witch, but this won’t be his funeral pyre._  
> 
> 
> the encounter with the schlatt! 
> 
> cw for this chapter: clear depiction of violence

_“Witch!”_

The world feels like it’s made of molasses, everything slow-moving and sticky as Schlatt’s voice rings above the panic of the crowd. It echoes in Dream’s ears while the fire’s smoke burns his lungs, and Schlatt is staring at him with a sick grin and something cold in those golden eyes.

Schlatt kept fucking watching him, that day at the tavern. Dream watches that same predatory grin flash across his face as Schlatt pushes free from the fleeing crowd, the call of a witch only spurring the flurry of panic and fear. Schlatt steps further into the library, towards him, and time resumes.

The panic hits him so fast it leaves him nauseous, but Dream scrambles back, gaze flickering from Schlatt to the rest of the room and back again— always back to Schlatt.

“I thought there was something fucked about you,” Schlatt calls. “Right off the bat, in that tavern.”

He advances casually, as if the heat and the smoke and the fire don’t bother him. Dream takes a step back for every step that Schlatt takes forward, maintaining the distance even as he’s pushed further and further from his easiest means of escape. 

The heat from the fire burns at his back as it intensifies, the inferno greedily consuming everything it reaches. Smoke is heavy in the air, burning his lungs and leaving his eyes stinging. 

“C’mon, witch, come meet your fuckin’ demise, huh?” 

In the same instant, the inferno all but explodes. Dream hits the ground as the roaring of the fire gets louder in time with the sound of shattering glass. He’s far too aware of the way the fire burns around him.

Blood roars in his ears as he looks for Schlatt, but smoke obscures most of his vision and he scrambles back to his feet. He doesn’t know where Schlatt is, where he is in the smoke, but leaving through the entrance isn’t an option. Everyone heard Schlatt call for a witch, if he runs out that way he’s still in danger. 

Something slams into his side and Dream instinctually twists, fisting his hand in fabric and rolling his shoulder. He hears a yelp as he slams Schlatt on the ground, hears the man cursing, and Dream bolts for the back of the library.

The windows shattered with the sudden explosion of the fire, and Dream sees the opportunity for what it is: an escape. 

He may be a witch, but this won’t be his funeral pyre. 

He picks up the pace and vaults through the window, glass cutting into his hands as he throws himself from the building. He crashes into the bushes below the window and thrashes as he frees himself, gasping for oxygen. 

Dream trips as he pushes forward, bolting away from the library as fast as his legs can carry him. He can hear screaming and shouting at his back, and he thinks he can hear the sound of Schlatt’s cursing. 

Where does he go. _Where does he go._

He can’t go back to the inn— even if a lot of his materials are there, Patches is there and he can’t stand the idea of putting her in danger. That room is his, and he didn’t fucking ward it yet. It’s not safe. 

Niki’s? No— Niki is sweet, but she’s friends with Wilbur, and Wilbur is friends with Schlatt. Even if he trusts Niki, he can’t trust that string of connections.

He’s missing so much of his stuff, so he can’t run to the woods, he’d have to make a detour and that’s dangerous—

And then Dream thinks of Eret. 

Eret, whose mother was a witch. 

He fumbles in his pockets, grabbing a coffee bean and popping it into his mouth. The ring of spell echoes in his ears as his speed increases, and he sprints in the direction of Eret’s store as quickly as his feet and the spell will carry him. 

He cracks the coffee bean between his teeth as he gets closer to the store, slowing down enough to not slam face-first into the door. He fumbles with the handle, shoving the door open and slamming it shut behind him. 

Eret appears from between the bookshelves, and Dream can see the surprise in his statue from the ruckus. 

“Dream? What—” 

Dream rushes to interrupt, desperation and panic coating his voice. “Witch hunters.” 

There’s half a beat of silence before Eret swears under his breath and rushes forward. He grabs Dream by the elbow, tugging on him, and Dream has to fight the impulse to rip himself away from the hold. 

Eret pulls him behind the front counter and shoves him slightly. “Here, just— get down.” 

Dream does as he says, dropping to the floor and squeezing himself into a space beneath the counter. Eret vanishes for a second, and Dream can hear him rushing around the shop before he returns and crouches down in front of him again. 

Eret presses a glass bottle into his hands. 

“Drink this,” he orders, “and don’t make a sound.” 

Dream does as he asks, uncorking the bottle and downing the contents entirely. It’s cold, the chill of the liquid washing over him as he drains the bottle of its contents. He wheezes quietly as he finishes, tucking his knees up slightly as he tries to make himself smaller— and then he realizes that he can’t see himself. He can see Eret in front of him, clear as day, but where Dream’s legs should be, there’s nothing. 

Eret takes the glass bottle from him— from where it’s floating where Dream’s hands should be— and it clicks. 

He’ll have to ask later how Eret got ahold of an invisibility potion. 

Eret stands up, stepping away from the counter and going back into the store. His nerves feel like they’re on fire as he stays silent, his heartbeat pounding in his throat.

He can hear Eret moving around, shelving books and organizing. 

The silence feels suffocating, anticipation hanging heavy in the air. 

The bell above the door chimes, and Dream holds his breath. 

“I’ll be right there,” Eret calls. 

“Just looking around, Eret.” Wilbur’s voice filters into the room, and Dream bites the inside of his cheek. “Have you seen anyone come through here, lately?”

“I’ve seen a lot of people, Wilbur. I own a store.” 

There’s a snort. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“A guy, ‘bout this tall? Sandy hair, wears a mask? Seems like your kind of person.” 

“And that’s supposed to mean… what, exactly?”

“Eret, stop playing dumb. You always get in the way when we’re doing hunts.” 

Dream can almost hear the smile in Eret’s voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Cut the shit, Eret. Where is the guy?” The question sounds flat from Wilbur— more of a demand than a question. “Schlatt’s seen him come in here before, and he ran this way.” 

“Are you admitting to stalking one of my customers?”

“You’re a bastard. I’m looking around.” 

Dream can hear the slightest scuffling of feet, and then silence. 

Eret speaks again. “If you’re going to try and ransack my store, I would hope you have a permit. You have a reputation to uphold, don’t you, Wilbur?”

“The guy’s a criminal, Eret. He lit the library on fire— he’s dangerous. Let me look around.”

Dream takes in a slow breath through his nose. He hadn’t set the library on fire— but of course it got pinned on him. He ran away, of course a fleeing witch looks guilty. He presses further into his hiding spot, folding his arms across his torso.

  
  
“If you don’t have a permit,” Eret says slowly, “you don’t get to look around. Especially when you’re looking for someone who I haven’t even seen in a few days.” 

“So you _have_ seen him.” 

“He’s a customer, he’s been in a few times.” There’s an edge of irritation in Eret’s voice. “I get it if you’re _‘hunting’_ , or whatever it is you call it, but you aren’t going to find your _‘prey’_ here.”

There’s another lapse of silence, and then an aggravated sigh. 

“Fine. I won’t dig through your store. But you’re still on the shit list, Eret, remember that.” 

“Goodbye, Wilbur.” Eret’s words are curt. 

Wilbur growls something that Dream can’t quite make out. There’s the sound of footsteps, the ringing of the bell, and then silence. 

It’s silent for what feels like an eternity before he hears Eret begin moving around again. Dream releases the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

Dream stays in his spot hiding under the counter, paranoia keeping him rooted in place. Even after the potion wears off and he can see his body again, he stays silent and doesn’t move. 

Eret comes back around after an indiscernible amount of time, another glass bottle in hand. He crouches in front of Dream, his eyebrows drawn together. 

“Are you okay?”

Dream makes a choked noise. He coughs, tries again. “I’m— no. No. I’m being _fucking hunted_ , I don’t think that qualifies as _okay_.”

“I get it. I get it— Dream, you need to breathe.” 

Dream nods and tries. He struggles to get his breathing under control, shoulders trembling as the adrenaline begins to fade away. 

“Good. Breathe with me.” 

Eret coaches Dream through getting himself under control, until his breathing is back to normal and some of the static of anxiety faded. He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a shuddering breath. 

“Eret?” 

“Mm?” 

“How do you know Wilbur? What does he mean by _your kind of person’_?”

Eret presses the glass bottle into Dream’s hands. “Wilbur and I are… acquaintances. I’m not really someone who supports the whole… _witch hunting_ thing, obviously. I’ve fucked up a few of their hunts, so Wilbur and his partner Schlatt? They don’t like me very much.” 

“... You’ve done this before?” 

“I haven’t let a witch hide in my store before, if that’s what you’re asking,” Eret sighs. “But I’ve helped… not save them, exactly, because I don’t know what happened to the people they were hunting— but I give them time. I can give _you_ time.”

Dream clears his throat and nods a little bit. “S’there any way you can get me out of town?”

“Not without them getting super suspicious of me.” Eret gives Dream an apologetic look. “But I can give you an invisibility potion, and I can help you sneak out of here. I’d put down money that Wilbur and Schlatt are waiting for you outside.” 

_They probably are._ The thought makes Dream’s skin crawl. 

“Anything helps,” he finally says. 

Eret nods, and stands up. “Wait to drink that potion— you’ll want it for when I close up shop.” 

Dream nods, and he settles back into his hiding spot to wait.

* * *

Like he was told to, Dream waits until Eret is closing up his shop to drink the invisibility potion. 

Eret leads the way to the door of the shop, a bag slung over his shoulder. He opens the door to the shop and steps out to the storefront after giving Dream plenty of room to slide by. 

Dream hovers for a moment, watching Eret flip the front sight from _“Open”_ to _“Closed”_.

He reaches out to touch Eret’s arm, tracing out the words, “thank you” below his shoulder. 

Eret gives the slightest nod of his head as he locks the door behind him, and he turns to start walking away. 

Dream doesn’t wait— he moves as quickly as he can while being quiet, aiming to get back to his inn before night falls.

* * *

Dream is at the edge of the city by nightfall.  
  


After leaving Eret, he’d gone straight to the inn to gather his books and the rest of his things, and hidden Patches in his bag. The magic keeping him invisible had spread to the rest of his items, encouraged by the adrenaline in his system, and he’s glad for the advantage. 

He leaves the city through the west side, hurrying to get out and trying to keep his focus split between running and listening. It's all for nothing if he gets followed.

He’ll just keep going west for now, maybe double back and go south just in case. 

Eret had warned him the potion wouldn’t last all day— he doesn’t have much longer until it wears off, and he needs to be as far from Manberg as he can get before then.

At the edge of the city, he swings his broom around to mount, and kicks off of the ground. 

He weaves between the trees on the outside of Manberg, trying to fly as confusing of a pattern as possible. He could go high, of course, but a crossbow bolt knocking him off of his broom from a height is certain death. 

The potion is worn off before long, and for once Dream detests the sight of his broom. He's moving away from Manburg quickly, but it doesn't feel quick _enough_. 

He pushes his broom faster, biting his tongue as he presses on. 

_Thunk._

Dream's eyes flickered to the sound, where an arrow is impeded into a nearby tree. 

Another arrow goes flying past him— too close to his head for comfort, and he hears Wilbur swear behind him 

He picks up the pace, this time speeding forward. Fuck losing them— if they've already found him, he needs to get _away_ —

A sharp pain shoots through his shoulder, knocking him forward and off of his broom with a shout. With his speed, he hits the ground and _skids_ , grass and dirt and pebbles catching on his clothes until he hits the base of a nearby tree. His ribs protest from the collision, and Dream coughs as he pushes himself up. His bag is missing, further in the dirt from where some of the leather had given way and snapped. 

He hears the ring of metal, too close for comfort, and he grabs his axe and swings it around. 

The glint of a sword greets him, as it meets the head of the axe, and Schlatt grins at him from the end. 

"Hey there, bud. You just gonna ditch us?" 

"We didn't exactly have any _plans—_ " Dream pushes his axe forward to drive Schlatt back before scrambling to his feet. 

An arrow catches through his cloak, pinning him in the tree, and Dream's heart leaps to his throat as he sees Wilbur come into his line of sight, a bow in hand with an arrow nocked.

Dream laughs a little bit, coughing as the panic kicks in again. "Two against one? You know, this seems a little unfair, don't you think?"

"I don't know." Wilbur levels his bow. "Witches are pretty dangerous, after all. And you _did_ set that fire… I think the odds are in our favour." 

"I didn't set that _fucking fire._ " Even when held at checkmate, he can't help but insist on that. He's not a fucking _arsonist_.

"Yeah you did." Schlatt grins, swinging his sword to rest on his shoulder." At least, as far as everyone in Manberg is concerned."

Dream bites the inside of his cheek. He needs to get to his bag and get to some components— he can't defend himself with anything in his pockets right now, and he needs to _go._

"I was hoping you'd be more interesting," Schlatt laments. "What with your namesake and all." 

Dream's eyes widen behind his mask and his jaw clicks shut. He grips his axe tight in his hand and his gaze flickers between the two hunters. 

He reels back and hurls his axe at Schlatt, who yelps and side-steps out of the way. The head of the axe is wedged into the tree behind him, and Schlatt looks between him and the axe a few times before he laughs. "Is that all you've got? After all the trouble you caused us when we were trying to find you? Come _on_." 

His laughter dies away, smile curling into a smirk.

“Wilbur?” 

Dream can see Wilbur roll his eyes before he steadies his bow, the arrow aimed for Dream's head.

“Go for it.” 

“That was the plan.” Wilbur grins, and lets the arrow fly. 

There’s a whistling of air as something goes flying, and Dream watches Wilbur’s arrow splinter and shatter as another projectile intercepts it. Shards of it go flying, off in another direction, and Dream’s gaze swerves towards the origin. 

“Well then.” A voice speaks up as someone steps out of the trees— a heavy red cloak across his shoulders and a hog mask secured over his face. “Don’t you two know not to steal someone else’s quarry?”

There’s a beat of silence where no one moves. 

Schlatt is the first to break the silence. “Been a while, Technoblade.”

_Technoblade?_

“Of course you would do this.” Wilbur glares at the newcomer. “Of course you’d come steal a job.” 

“ _Steal?_ I think _you two_ are the ones stealing.” The man reaches over his back, producing a trident from his back, and Dream watches Schlatt and Wilbur both adjust accordingly, gaining a tighter grip on their weapons. Technoblade continues, “I’ve been hunting him for the better part of a few weeks now, kids. Back off.”

They’re more focused on Technoblade than him, now.

Dream watches the hunters carefully, slowly bringing one hand up to the button of his cloak, beginning to unfasten it. 

“A few weeks? Damn, is the famous Technoblade losing his edge?” Schlatt’s voice is almost gloating. “What about that whole witch slaughter thing you’ve got going on?”

“Schlatt,” Wilbur says quietly. “Maybe don’t poke that wound.” 

“We have a common goal here," Schlatt continues. "You can help us kill this witch and split the loot three ways. How’s that sound?” 

Technoblade adjusts his stance, the trident in his hand glinting dangerously. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t share.”

He lunges towards Schlatt, trident raised overhead, and Dream takes the opportunity to go flying towards his bag. 

He hears shouting, and an arrow buries itself in his arm. He grunts, but he continues to dig in his bag. Patches blinks at him with wide, startled eyes, and he only has a moment to be relieved for her before he grabs the vial he’s looking for and pours gunpowder in his hands. 

He whirls towards the witch hunters just in time to see Schlatt lunging at him, and Dream claps his hands together. 

The gunpowder in his hands fizzles and pops and a wave of lightning crashes into the witch hunters. Schlatt is tossed backwards and Wilbur shouts in alarm; Dream lunges for his stuff. He grabs his bag, holding it tight against his chest. 

The movement makes him nauseous, and the arrow in his shoulder burns. 

Run. Run. Run. 

Dream grabs his broom and stumbles, running. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” Wilbur shouts after him, but it’s cut off with a pained grunt. 

He doesn’t even try to look back, feet pounding into the ground as he tears away from the conflict.

And then Technoblade is in front of him, his terrifying mask filling Dream’s vision as something solid smacks into him and sends him flying. He rolls so his back hits the ground, holding his bag tight to protect Patches inside. 

Technoblade advances, a malice coming off of him in waves. 

Dream’s hand shoots into his bag, grabbing for his gunpowder again even as his vision begins to spot. In the same moment that Technoblade raises his trident and swings it, he flings dredges of lightning at the man. He watches it collect at the end of the trident, travelling up the gleaming metal before Techno swings the trident around and slams it on the ground. The electricity dissipates in the air, and Dream feels his stomach drop. 

“Nice try,” Technoblade says. 

He slams his trident into the side of Dream’s head, and his world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by @VolarFinch/
> 
> I don't really have anything to say except, uhhh well. **:3c!**  
>  For everyone here for Techno, I offer you some food!  
> this chapter is a few days early but I LOVED writing it and just couldn't wait to show it to you guys adkad
> 
> Thank you for reading, and see you next chapter!


	12. hunting and hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Technoblade’s name is something of a legend— a new one, woven together from rumours and bodies strung up in town squares. A peculiar but vicious witch hunter with a pig mask and a horrifying capability with weapons. There are stories of entire covens being slaughtered by his hand, of witches being torn open and hung up like ragdolls in the place of their demise. He is ruthless and horrifying, and finding yourself as his quarry means certain death._  
> 
> 
> Reliving nightmares, and clarity.  
> CW for this chapter: night terrors, graphic threats of violence

His lungs are burning, and he’s running. The forest whips by him as his feet carry him across the earth, his muscles burning from exertion as he ducks and weaves through the trees. 

He leaps over a fallen log, stumbles, and keeps running. He hears shouting in the distance, mens’ voices all clambouring on top of each other as they bicker and argue, and Clay runs. He only slows down when he can’t hear the men anymore, and he collapses with his back against a tree in an attempt to catch his breath.

“Clay.” 

He opens his eyes to see a familiar smiling mask looking back at him from where it’s hidden inside a hood. The hood is blue, though, a shade of blue he hasn’t seen in a long time. The mask tilts slightly as the person wearing it tilts their head. 

“Clay, we have to go home, okay?” 

He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. His mind is reeling— that's his mask. Why is it looking back at him, isn’t he wearing it—? 

He raises his hand to touch his face, feeling the smooth porcelain of his mask beneath his fingertips, and he frowns. His gaze blurs, and then sharpens, and the man wearing the mask is gone and he’s no longer in the woods. He’s under a counter— Eret’s counter— but not quite. The lighting isn’t right, and the air is too damp and every sound echoes too much. 

But there are books in piles on the floor, and he recognizes the panelling across from him. He’s under the counter in Eret’s shop, hiding. 

Why is he hiding? 

He raises his hands to his face again, frowning in confusion. 

Instead of porcelain, he feels his own warm skin and half of his face is burning with pain. He lets out a terrified sob, which sounds far too young to be him, and he claps a hand over his mouth. 

Blood drips down his face, into his eyes and over his fingers, and he presses himself into the corner as far as he can go. His trousers are dirty and torn, his tunic ripped from falling through a bramble patch, and his muscles ache from running. 

He can’t open his right eye without blinking away blood, and so he cowers. 

Where’s his grandfather? 

_Is he going to die?_

The wood of the counter feels too much like rocks digging into his back as he cowers, hides from the men who had seen him using magic to fish, barely a mile out from home, who had hollered for a witch. 

The blade sears across his face again, and the blood continues to flow, and Clay _screams_. 

* * *

Dream comes back to consciousness with a strangled noise, eyes snapping open as he awakens. 

He wheezes, breath coming too short and too quick and not enough. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s panicking, that his vision is both blurry and sharp at the same, hazy and all too clear. He gasps, closes his eyes, and brings his hands up to his face. 

His mask is there. _His mask is still there._

Dream gasps, desperately reaching for a way to breathe. He tries to inhale, chokes halfway through the breath, and coughs as it rebounds. He tries again, his chest trying to tighten against the oxygen for an instant before relaxing. 

Weight presses against his chest in little pressure points, and Dream opens his eyes to see Patches standing on his chest with her head bowed towards him. She sniffs at him, kneading her paws into his tunic before bumping her head against his chin and tucking her paws beneath him. She perches over the tension in his chest, and Dream can feel the way that Patches’ purring reverberates in the chambers of his chest, already beginning to dismantle the remnants of panic and the fear clinging to his psyche.

He measures his breathing, counts the duration of each inhale, the way he holds it in his lungs, and then his exhales. A careful recipe to soothe his breathing and bring him back under control. He lets out a shuddering exhale as some of the tension leaves him, but bringing air into his lungs is still difficult. 

Patches never stops purring, her eyes watching Dream’s masked face all the while.

The purring helps;eventually the tension in his chest fractures and then breaks, and he can breathe slightly easier— and it only gets easier from there. 

He drops his hands to smooth them along Patches’ flanks and back up, scratching around her ears and jaw. She only purrs louder with the attention, flopping over onto his chest and rolling into the attention. 

Dream continues to pet her until his vision loses that kind of staticy sort of feeling, and slowly he becomes aware of his surroundings. 

There’s a mattress at his back, and a lightweight blanket covers his legs. A wooden ceiling is overhead, and the walls are made of grey stone brick, packed and set. He turns his head and sees a window with a drawn curtain. 

Dream pushes himself up, holding himself up on an elbow and wincing at the sharp pain the action causes him. His head throbs, points on his body ache dully from curating bruises, and the world is slightly fuzzy. Patches stays perched on his chest, watching him closely with her paws kneading into his tunic. 

The memories filter back slowly. 

The fire.

Wilbur and Schlatt. 

Technoblade. 

His breath catches, but the confusion sets in before the panic. Technoblade had gotten to him first— or, technically, had gotten to him last and all but destroyed the competition for him. The thought makes him feel sick.

Technoblade’s name is something of a legend— a new one, woven together from rumours and bodies strung up in town squares. A peculiar but vicious witch hunter with a pig mask and a horrifying capability with weapons. There are stories of entire covens being slaughtered by his hand, of witches being torn open and hung up like ragdolls in the place of their demise. He is ruthless and horrifying, and finding yourself as his quarry means certain death. 

...So why the fuck is he still alive? 

His head is swimming from the revelation and the confusion around the situation. Why is he alive, when he very clearly remembers being at the end of the Blade’s weapon. Why was he in a bed, in a theoretically escapable room? 

Dream frowns, chewing on his tongue and looking down at Patches as if she holds the answers. 

“Finally woke up, huh?” 

Dream’s gaze snaps towards the sound of the voice, and he looks up to see the Blade himself leaning in the doorway of the room, arms folded and one leg crossed over the other. His mask is settled in place, obscuring the majority of his face from view, and that monstrous cloak of his is missing. 

Dream scrambles back slightly, wincing at the jolt of pain that shoots through his arm. 

“Chill out, guy.” Technoblade raises a hand. “I’m not here to kill you— yet.” 

Dream eyes him warily, distrusting. “Why the fuck am I alive?” 

Technoblade nods in his direction, gesturing with his hand. “That one, mainly.”

Dream blinks in confusion before he drops his gaze to Patches. She purrs, tail swinging slowly as she headbutts Dream in the chin before leaping off of his chest. She trots over to Technoblade and twines around his legs, purring happily as she goes. 

Dream stares, baffled. “Patches?” 

Patches looks back at him with a pleased meow. 

“You little _traitor—_ ” 

“I wouldn’t call her a traitor. Your familiar there saved your life.” 

Dream blinks, eyeing Technoblade with a mixture of wariness and confusion. “...Patches isn’t a familiar. She’s just a cat.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and Technoblade looks down at the cat sitting at his feet and blinking at him. 

“What the heck did you teach your cat?” There’s a hint of bewilderment in Technoblade’s voice, and Dream is struck by how oddly human he sounds. “She tried to flay me alive.”

Dream’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline, and he drops his gaze to Technoblade’s hands to see them wrapped in bandages. His gaze drops to Patches, whose proud purring is loud enough for Dream to hear it from across the room.

“My cat,” Dream begins slowly, “kept you, _Technoblade_ , from killing me?”

“I’m not going to kill a _cat_!” 

Dream takes a moment and recontextualizes Technoblade— a ruthless witch hunter, a man who has slaughtered more witches in the past five years than most witch hunters have in a decade, who refuses to hurt a cat and left Dream alone because of her. 

“...Okay.” He doesn’t know what to do with that information. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Eventually, yeah.” 

“Why didn’t you do it immediately?” 

“Killing a poisoned man is boring.” 

Dream stares. Technoblade stares back.

“Poisoned?” Dream echoes. 

“Wilbur’s notorious for using loaded arrows on hunts.” Technoblade pushes off of the doorframe and steps into the room. Patches keeps ahead of him, trotting in front of his feet. “It’s some pretty strong stuff, and killing weak prey isn’t any fun.” 

He pulls up a chair from the desk in the room and sits down near Dream’s bedside. Patches leaps up, immediately running to take a place in Dream’s lap and coiling up, pleased with herself.

“Fun?” he echoes. 

“Fun,” Technoblade responds, “is the name of the game. The point of the hunt. Or, at least, that’s what most of us will tell you.” 

“...You hunt for fun.” The idea makes him feel sick. “You hunt _people_ for _fun_.” 

“No, no, no. I have my own reasons for hunting.” Technoblade’s voice has settled into a careful monotone, and something about it makes Dream want to punch the man in the face. “But most do it for fun, or for loot, or whatever.” 

“You’re fucking sick.” 

“I have my reasons,” Technoblade repeats. “I wouldn’t patch you up like this, normally, by the way. But it’ll be more interesting to fight you before I kill you, and that’ll just be boring if you aren’t max capability.” 

Dream’s eyes narrow with distrust behind his mask. “This is a game to you.” 

“This particular quarry is.” 

“How’d you find out about me? I’ve never seen you before.” He’d at least interacted with Wilbur and Schlatt before they decided to hunt him down. “How the fuck did you hear about _me_ in specific?” 

“A stupid little bird said something about it. Magic lingers, Dream, you should know that.” 

The sound of his name makes his stomach drop. “How do you—” 

Technoblade interrupts, “S’not important. But your namesake is interesting— and it kept you alive.”

Dream swallows and doesn’t say anything. 

“S’that a family name?” Technoblade folds his arms on the back of the chair. “ _Dream_. A sensation of thoughts when sleeping, an unfulfilled ambition. There’s a lot of stories about it— that name of yours. You apparently pissed off a lot of these people in the past forty years.”

Dream thinks back to his grandfather, who passed the name onto him. He thinks about the stories he told, laughing about how he escaped witch hunters time and time again, how he’d led plenty to their demise during the chase. He remembers his grandfather passing along his mask, pressing the ceramic into his hands and whispering the name to him— a witch’s moniker. _Dream_. 

“It’s been a bit,” he finally answers. “Dreams can last a while.” 

Technoblade watches him for a moment, his mask obscuring whatever expression is on his face.

The silence between them is heavy, bordering on suffocating until Technoblade speaks again. 

“Fair enough.”

Technoblade stands up from the chair, returning it to its place. Dream eyes him warily and brings his hands up to gently smooth them across Patches’ fur in a calming gesture for himself. Technoblade catches the look, and he laughs with a shake of his head. 

“I already told you— you have to be healed up before I’m gonna hurt you. Relax, finish getting the poison out of your system.”

“You’re just leaving me alone?” He doesn’t manage to mask his surprise in time. “I could get up and leave. I could break that window and run.” 

“You could,” Technoblade agrees. 

In the blink of an eye, a trident is level with his throat and Dream freezes entirely. Technoblade stares at him from the end of it, bandaged hands holding steadily to the handle. 

“But you won’t,” Technoblade continues. “I’m getting a fair fight out of you, Dream. If you try to run I’ll gut you here and now, and _hang you from the rafters with your intestines as decoration_.”

There’s a slight, odd warp to Technoblade’s voice as he continues speaking— like a few people speaking in a distant tandem, overlaid. The threat makes him shudder, that odd overlaid tremor aside. 

A low growl comes from his lap, and Technoblade pulls his trident away. Patches has her gaze fixed on the witch hunter, her hackles raised and lips pulled back into a snarl while her tail lashes dangerously. Dream doesn’t think he’s seen her do something like this before. 

Technoblade takes a step before he begins to turn, moving back towards the door. 

“Technoblade.” 

The hunter pauses and turns to look back at him. 

“Why me?”

Technoblade stares, and Dream sees his jaw working for a fraction of a second before clicking shut. 

“Mythology isn’t just stories, Dream.” There’s something buried in Technoblade’s careful monotone, something simmering below the surface that’s been simmering for a while. “People like you can seriously throw everything apart if you aren’t careful. People like you can’t have that knowledge— can’t look into it.

“People like you, who seek those things, _deserve to be culled_.” 

There it is again— the overlaying warp to Technoblade’s voice, the extra voices creeping through him. 

It sends an unpleasant chill down Dream’s spine. 

Technoblade rests his hand on the door handle. He says, “Rest up, Dream.”

The door closes behind him, and Dream collapses back into the bed and tries to regain control over his breathing again. Those extra voices are unnerving to put it _lightly_ , and he finds himself beginning to filter through his thoughts. 

Why would studying mythology and fairy tales send a notorious witch hunter after him?

How did Technoblade know that he was researching mythology to begin with? 

_“I’ve been hunting him for the better part of a few weeks now, kids. Back off.”_

A few weeks… Where had he been that would have let Technoblade pick up his trail? 

_“A stupid little bird said something about it.”_

A stupid little—

_“Magic lingers, Dream.”_

His train of thought whirls to a halt. 

The lodge in the taiga.

Tommy ratted him out.

Dream makes a mental note to fucking _throttle_ the kid if he makes it out of this place alive. 

He raises his hands, one touching his mask and raising it enough for him to drag his other hand down his face with an irritated groan. Every movement makes his arm twinge in pain. His mask is put back in place, and Dream sinks into the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Technoblade intends to kill him— but he says wants a fair fight. He wants Dream to be entirely capable before he fights him, wants him to be healed entirely. 

...He needs milk for that. It would help the poison dissipate quicker than it usually would on its own, and would probably clear up any lingering effects from Schlatt and Wilbur.

He closes his eyes, and tries to make a mental note to look through his bag later for powdered milk or something like that. It would be better than nothing.

* * *

When he wakes up next, the room is dark and there’s a plate and a glass at his bedside. Patches is nowhere to be found. 

He struggles to sit up, arm still protesting the motion, and he checks over the food. It’s fairly basic— bread and beef, enough to give him energy. He checks the glass, expecting water, and is pleasantly surprised to find it full of milk. 

… Technoblade must be eager to fight him, if he provided that without being asked. 

Dream downs the milk and picks at the bread, and curls back up to sleep. The poison would flush itself out of his system faster, now. 

* * *

The morning comes, and most of the pain in his arm is gone, now. 

He forces himself out of bed, pacing circles around the room to get his body accustomed to moving around again after however long he’d been unconscious. Patches is still missing from the room, much to Dream’s concern. 

The room is smaller than he’d noticed originally. It felt like a spare that had gotten a bed and a desk shoved haphazardly into it. The small window doesn’t show him much— he can see trees, and he can see water in the distance. He still doesn’t know where he is.

His bag and belongings are nowhere to be found, much to his irritation. 

No weapons, no components, no nothing. 

“Fair fight, my ass,” Dream grumbles, irritation prickling under his skin. 

He hears a happy _mrrrp!_ from behind him, and he turns to see Patches crawling out from beneath the bed, trotting over and weaving between his legs happily. 

He crouches down to scratch her behind her ears when he notices something held in her teeth, and his eyebrows raise slightly behind his mask. 

His glass vial of gunpowder glints, held delicately between Patches’ jaws, and Dream can almost feel the pride radiating off of her as she purrs and places the vial in his hand. She darts back to the bed, crawling back out with another of his vials. He holds the two of them in one hand, watching the gunpowder and the redstone side-by-side. 

An idea begins to form in the back of his mind, and he tucks the vials away. 

He scratches Patches beneath the chin. “You little sneak-thief,” he marvels, a hint of laughter in his voice. “You’re amazing, Patches.” 

She purrs happily, butting her head into his hand. Dream can feel the vials heavy in his pocket, and an idea begins to formulate in the back of his mind.

Technoblade comes to check on him a few hours later, appraising him from the doorway. His mask is as disconcerting as ever, and that overly large cloak of his is wrapped comfortably around his shoulders. Dream doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but the cloak itself adds a kind of intimidating bulk to the hunter’s figure. 

“You seem to be doing fine,” Technoblade comments. 

“Pretty sure the poison’s gone, if that’s what you mean.” Dream eyes him out of the corner of his eye. “Where’s my stuff, by the way?” 

“Not important.” Technoblade waves him off. “I have a weapon for you to use.” 

“That sounds rigged as hell.” 

“You don’t think I’m fair?” Technoblade snorts, the sound bordering on animalistic. “That’s just rude, Dream.” 

Dream’s unamused expression is hidden behind his mask, but Technoblade seems to get the gist.

“I told you— I want a fair fight. I even have an offer for you.” 

“An offer.” Dream’s tone is flat and unamused, and he scratches Patches under her chin. 

“I’m going to kill you if I win this fight,” Technoblade says. “And, y’know, I probably will win this fight. I don’t normally lose them.” 

The way he says it is calm, but not confident— Technoblade speaks the words like a fact, like Technoblade winning is just a fact of the universe. 

“But,” he continues. “If— _if_ — you manage to beat me? I’ll let you go.”  
  
Technoblade grins and Dream catches a hint of sharp, too-long canines peeking out— and for an instant, that feral sort of grin makes Technoblade seem so terribly unhinged.

“Do we have a deal, Dream?”

Dream feels the hidden vials in his pockets, and he thinks. Fighting Technoblade to begin with is suicide— more than a witch hunter, a witch slaughterer; engaging was just begging for death, reaching for it with open arms. 

His right eye burns beneath his mask, and he thinks. Technoblade is still human, as much as he doesn’t look like it in this instant. Dream isn’t inherently inferior, and he’s _lucky_ . He’s always been lucky, and crafty, and _smart_. 

He takes in a deep breath. He has so much left unfinished, after all. He can’t afford to die here, especially to Technoblade’s hand.

“Deal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by @VolarFinch/ 
> 
> Finally, a full Techno chapter instead of just a handful of snippets here and there! Writing him is honestly SO fun, I had a BLAST writing him this chapter.  
> For those of you who were worried about Patches: I'm almost insulted that y'all think I would kill her, that cat has more braincells than most of the humans in this story— (I'm only partially joking. She's really smart, tho)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, as always! I hope you all liked this chapter <3  
> See ya next chapter!


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